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THE

GARDEN
PARTY

KATHERINE
MANSFIELD

MODERN LIBRARY - NEW YORK

PR __

HoUSe is THE PUBLISHER OF
THE MODERN LIBRARY

BENNETT A. CBRF • DONALD S. KLOPFER • ROBERT K. HAAS

Manufactured in the United States of America

Printed by Parkway Printing Company Paper by Richard Bauer & Co.
Bound by H.Wolff

JOHN MIDDLETON MURRY

CONTENTS

AT THE BAY i

THE GARDEN PARTY 59
THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL 83

MR. AND MRS. DOVE 116

THE YOUNG GIRL 130

LIFE OF MA PARKER 140

MARRIAGE A LA MODE 151

THE VOYAGE 168

Miss BRILL 182

HER FIRST BALL 190

THE SINGING LESSON 201

THE STRANGER 211

BANK HOLIDAY 231

AN IDEAL FAMILY 237

THE LADY'S-MAID 248

AT THE BAY

VERY early morning. The sun was not yet
risen, and the whole of Crescent Bay was
hidden under a white sea-mist. The big
bush-covered hills at the back were smothered.
You could not see where they ended and the pad-
docks and bungalows began. The sandy road was
gone and the paddocks and bungalows the other
side of it; there were no white dunes covered with
reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to
mark which was beach and where was the sea. A
heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big
drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall;
the silvery, fluffy toi-toi was limp on its long stalks,
and all the marigolds and the pinks in the bungalow
gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness.
Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of
dew lay on the flat nasturtium leaves. It looked
as though the sea had beaten up softly in the dark-
ness, as though one immense wave had come rip-
pling, rippling — how far? Perhaps if you had
waked up in the middle of the night you might have
seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone
again. . . .

AT THE BAY

Ah-Aah ! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the
bush there came the sound of little streams flow-
ing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth
stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again;
and there was the splashing of big drops on large
leaves, and something else — what was it? —
a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a
twig and then such silence that it seemed some one
was listening.

Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the
piled-up masses of broken rock, a flock of sheep
came pattering. They were huddled together, a
small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick-
like legs trotted along quickly as if the cold and the
quiet had frightened them. Behind them an old
sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran
along with his nose to the ground, but carelessly,
as if thinking of something else. And then in the
rocky gateway the shepherd himself appeared.
He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat
that was covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet
trousers tied under the knee, and a wide-awake
with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim.
One hand was crammed into his belt, the other
grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And as
he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft
light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that
sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut
an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp,
ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified

AT THE BAY

paces by his master's side. The sheep ran forward
in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and
ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under
the sea. "Baa! Baaal" For a time they seemed
to be always on the same piece of ground. There
ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow
puddles; the same soaking bushes showed on either
side and the same shadowy palings. Then some-
thing immense came into view; an enormous shock-
haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the
big gum-tree outside Mrs. Stubbs's shop, and as
they passed by there was a strong whiff of euca-
lyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the
mist. The shepherd stopped whistling; he rubbed
his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and,
screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the
sea. The sun was rising. It was marvellous how
quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved
from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush
and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; big twists
and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the
silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky — a
bright, pure blue — was reflected in the puddles, and
the drops, swimming along the telegraph poles,
flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, glit-
tering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache
to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl
is small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket,
fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a
few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave,

AT THE BAY

fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue
smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked
proud of him.

"Baa ! Baaa !" The sheep spread out into a fan.
They were just clear of the summer colony before
the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy
head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little
children . . . who lifted their arms to drag down,
to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep.
Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Bur-
nells' cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too
early as usual, looking for their milk-girl. When
she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly,
arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed
to give a little fastidious shiver. "Ugh! What
a coarse, revolting creature !" said Florrie. But the
old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, fling-
ing out his legs from side to side. Only one of his
e^rs twitched to prove that he saw, and thought
her a silly young female.

The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and
the smell of leaves and wet black earth mingled with
the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds were
singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head
and, perching on the tiptop of a spray, it turned
to the sun, ruffling its small breast feathers. And
now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed
the charred-looking little whare where Leila the
milk-girl lived with her old Gran. The sheep
strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep-

AT THE BAY

dog, padded after, rounded them up and headed
them for the steeper, narrower rocky pass that led
out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove.
"Baa! Baa!" Faint the cry came as they rocked
along the fast-drying road. The shepherd put
away his pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket so
that the little bowl hung over. And straightway
the soft airy whistling began again. Wag ran out
along a ledge of rock after something that smelled,
and ran back agan disgusted. Then pushing, nudg-
ing, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the
shepherd followed after out of sight.

A few moments later the back door of one of the
bungalows opened, and a figure in a broad-striped
bathing suit flung down the paddock, cleared
the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the
hollow, staggered up the sandy hillock, and raced
for dear life over the big porous stones, over the
cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed
like oil. Splish-splosh ! Splish-splosh ! The wa-
ter bubbled round his legs as Stanley Burnell waded
out exulting. First man in as usual! He'd beaten
them all again. And he swooped down to souse
his head and neck.

"Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!"
A velvety bass voice came booming over the water.

Great Scott 1 Damnation take it ! Stanley lifted

AT THE BAY

up to see a dark Head bobbing far out and an arm
lifted. It was Jonathan Trout — there before him!
"Glorious morning 1" sang the voice.

"Yes, very fine !" said Stanley briefly. Why the
dickens didn't the fellow stick to his part of the sea ?
Why should he come barging over to this exact
spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out,
swimming overarm. But Jonathan was a match
for him. Up he came, his black hair sleek on his
forehead, his short beard sleek.

"I had an extraordinary dream last night!" he
shouted.

What was the matter with the man? This mania
for conversation irritated Stanley beyond words.
And it was always the same — always some piffle
about a dream he'd had, or some cranky idea he'd
got hold of, or some rot he'd been reading. Stanley
turned over on his back and kicked with his legs till
he was a living waterspout. But even then . . .
"I dreamed I was hanging over a terrifically high
cliff, shouting to some one below." You would be !
thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it.
He stopped splashing. "Look here, Trout," he
said, "I'm in rather a hurry this morning."

"You're WHAT?" Jonathan was so surprised —
or pretended to be — that he sank under the .water,
then reappeared again blowing.

"All I mean is," said Stanley, "I've no time to —
to — to fool about. I want to get this over. I'm

AT THE BAY

in a hurry. I've work to do this morning-
see?"

Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished.
"Pass, friend!" said the bass voice gently, and he
slid away through the water with scarcely a ripple.
. . . But 'curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's
bathe. What an unpractical idiot the man was!
Stanley struck out to sea again, and then as quickly
swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach.
He felt cheated.

Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water.
He floated, gently moving his hands like fins, and
letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It was
curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of
Stanley Burnell. True, he had a fiendish desire to
tease him sometimes, to poke fun at him, but at
bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There
was something pathetic in his determination to
make a job of everything. You couldn't help feel-
ing he'd be caught out one day, and then what an
almighty cropper he'd come ! At that moment an
immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him, and
broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What
a beauty! And now there came another. That
was the way to live — carelessly, recklessly, spending
oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade
towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm,
wrinkled sand. To take things easy, not to fight
against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way

Ax THE BAY

to it — that was what was needed. It was this ten-
sion that was all wrong. To live— to live! And
the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, basking in
the light, as though laughing at its own beauty,
seemed to whisper, "Why not?"

But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned
blue with cold. He ached all over; it was as though
some one was wringing the blood out of him. And
stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles
tight, he too felt his bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed
in too long.

Ill

Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stan-
ley appeared, wearing a blue serge suit, a stiff
collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily
clean and brushed; he was going to town for the
day. Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his
watch and put it beside his plate.

"I've just got twenty-five minutes," he said.
"You might go and see if the porridge is ready,
Beryl?"

"Mother's just gone for it," said Beryl. She
sat down at the table and poured out his tea.

"Thanks!" Stanley took a sip. "Hallo!" he
said in an astonished voice, "you've forgotten the
sugar."

"Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl didn't help
him; she pushed the basin across. What did this

AT THE BAY

mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyto
widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick
glance at his sister-in-law and leaned back.

"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly,
fingering his collar.

Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in
her fingers.

"Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too
looked up, and smiled at Stanley. "Why should
there be?"

"O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I
thought you seemed rather "

At that moment the door opened and the three
little girls appeared, each carrying a porridge plate.
They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and knickers;
their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair
plaited and pinned up in what was called a horse's
tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the
tray.

"Carefully, children," she warned. But they
were taking the very greatest care. They loved
being allowed to carry things. "Have you said
good morning to your father?"

"Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on
the bench opposite Stanley and Beryl.

"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield
gave him his plate.

"Morning, mother! How's the boy?"

"Splendid ! He only woke up once last night.
What a perfect morning!" The old woman

tQased, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out
of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded.
Through the wide-open window streamed the sun
on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor.
Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In
the middle there was an old salad bowl filled with
yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a
look of deep content shone in her eyes.

"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother,"
said Stanley. "I've only twelve and a half minutes
before the coach passes. Has any one given my
shoes to the servant girl?"

"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield
was quite unruffled.

"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!"
cried Beryl despairingly.

"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What
had she done now? She had only dug a river down
the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was eating
the banks away. But she did that every single morn-
ing, and no one had said a word up till now.

"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel
and Lottie?" How unfair grown-ups are!

"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't
you, Lottie?"

"I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle
mine with sugar and put on the milk and finish it.
Only babies play with their food."

Stanley pushed back his chair and got up.

"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And,

AT THE BAY

Beryl, if you've finished, I wish you'd cut down to
the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your
mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's
been put. Wait a minute — have you children been
playing with my stick?"

"No, father!"

"But I put it here." Stanley began to bluster.
"I remember distinctly putting it in this corner.
Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose.
Look sharp! The stick's got to be found."

Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the
chase. "You haven't been using it to poke the
kitchen fire with by any chance?"

Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda
was lying. "Most extraordinary thing. I can't
keep a single possession to myself. They've made
away with my stick, now!"

"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness
on these occasions could not be real, Stanley de-
cided. Would nobody sympathize with him?

"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried
from the gate.

Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to
say good-bye !" he cried. And he meant that as a
punishment to her.

He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the
house, and swung down the garden path. Yes,
the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning
over the open gate, was laughing up at somebody
or other just as if nothing had happened. The

AT THE BAY

heartlessness of women ! The way they took it for
granted it was your job to slave away for them
while they didn't even take the trouble to see that
your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kelly trailed his
whip across the horses.

"Good-bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and
gaily. It was easy enough to say good-bye ! And
there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her hand.
The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye
too, for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her
turn, give a little skip and run back to the house.
She was glad to be rid of him!

Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room
she ran and called "He's gone !" Linda cried
from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old
Mrs. Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his
little flannel coatee.

"Gone?"

"Gone!"

Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the
man out of the house. Their very voices were
changed as they called to one another; they sounded
warm and loving and as if they shared a secret.
Beryl went over to the table. "Have another cup
of tea, mother. It's still hot." She wanted, some-
how, to celebrate the fact that they could do what
they liked now. There was no man to disturb them;
the whole perfect day was theirs.

"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield,
but the way at that moment she tossed the boy up

AT THE BAY

and said "a-goos-a-goos-a-ga !" to him meant that
she felt the same. The little girls ran into the
paddock like chickens let out of a coop.

Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the
dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection and used
the precious tank water in a perfectly reckless
fashion.

"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the
teapot into the bowl and held it under the water
even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too was
a man and drowning was too good for them.

"Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for mel"
There was poor little Lottie, left behind again,
because she found it so fearfully hard to get over
the stile by herself. When she stood on the first
step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the
post. Then you had to put one leg over. But
which leg? She. never could decide.. And when
she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp
of despair — then the feeling was awful. She was
half in the paddock still and half in the tussock
grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted
up her voice. "Wait for me!"

"No, don't you wait for her, Kezia !" said Isabel.
"She's such a little silly. She's always making a
fuss. Come on!" And she tugged Kezia's jersey.
"You can use my bucket if you come with me," she

AT THE BAY

said kindly. "It's bigger than yours." But Kezia
couldn't leave Lottie all by herself. She ran back
to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the
face and breathing heavily.

"Here, put your other foot over," said Kezia.

"Where?"

Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a moun-
tain height.

"Here where my hand is." Kezia patted the
place.

"Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a deep
sigh and put the second foot over.

"Now — sort of turn round and sit down and
slide," said Kezia.

"But there's nothing to sit down on, Kezia," said
Lottie.

She managed it at last, and once it was over she
shook herself and began to beam.

"I'm getting better at climbing over stiles, aren't
I, Kezia?"

Lottie's was a very hopeful nature.
The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel's
bright red sunbonnet up that sliding, slipping hill.
At the top they paused to decide where to go and
to have a good stare at who was there already.
Seen from behind, standing against the skyline, ges-
ticulating largely with their spades, they looked
like minute puzzled explorers.

The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there
already with their lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool

AT THE BAY

and kept order with a whistle that she wore tied
round her neck, and a small cane with which she di-
rected operations. The Samuel Josephs never
played by themselves or managed their own game.
If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water
down the girls' necks or the girls trying to put little
black crabs into the boys' pockets. So Mrs. S. J.
and the poor lady-help drew up what she called a
"brogramme" every morning to keep them "abused
and out of bischief." It was all competitions or
races or round games. Everything began with a
piercing blast of the lady-help's whistle and ended
with another. There were even prizes — large,
rather dirty paper parcels which the lady-help with
a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string kit.
The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes
and cheated and pinched one another's arms — they
were all expert pinchers. The only time the Bur-
nell children ever played with them Kezia had got a
prize, and when she undid three bits of paper she
found a very small rusty button-hook. She couldn't
understand why they made such a fuss. . . .

But they never played with the Samuel Josephs
now or even went to their parties. The Samuel
Josephs were always giving children's parties at the
Bay and there was always the same food. A big
washhand basin of very brown fruit-salad, buns cut
into four and a washhand jug full of something the
lady-help called "Limonadear." And you went
away in the evening with half the frill torn off your

AT THE BAY

frock or something spilled all down the front of
your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel Jo-
sephs leaping like savages on their lawn. No !
They were too awful.

On the other side of the beach, close down to the
water, two little boys, their knickers rolled up,
twinkled like spiders. One was digging, the other
pattered in and out of the water, filling a small
bucket. They were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags.
But Pip was so busy digging and Rags was so busy
helping that they didn't see their little cousins until
they were quite close.

"Look!" said Pip. "Look what I've discov-
ered." And he showed them an old, wet, squashed-
Jooking boot. The three little girls stared.

"Whatever are you going to do with it?" asked
Kezia.

"Keep it, of course!" Pip was very scornful.
"It's a find— see?"

Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same . . .

"There's lots of things buried in the sand," ex-
plained Pip. "They get chucked up from wrecks.
Treasure. Why — you might find "

"But why does Rags have to keep on pouring
water in?" asked Lottie.

"Oh, that's to moisten it," said Pip, "to make
the work a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags."

And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring
in the water that turned brown like cocoa.

"Here, shall 1 show you what I found yesterday?"
16

AT THE BAY

said Pip mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into
the sand. "Promise not to tell."

They promised.

"Say, cross my heart straight dinkum."

The little girls said it.

Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it
a long time on the front of his jersey, then breathed
n it and rubbed it again.

"Now turn round!" he ordered..

They turned round.

"All look the same way! Keep still! Now!"

And his hand opened; he held up to the light
something that flashed, that winked, that was a most
lovely green.

"It's a nemeral," said Pip solemnly.

"Is it really, Pip?" Even Isabel was impressed.

The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's
fingers. Aunt Beryl had a nemeral in a ring, but it
was a very small one. This one was as big as a star
and far more beautiful.

As the morning lengthened whole parties ap-
peared over the sand-hills and came down on the
beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven
o'clock the women and children of the summer
colony had the sea to themselves. First the women
undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses and cov-
ered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags;

AT THE BAY

then the children were unbuttoned. The beach was
strewn with little heaps of clothes and shoes; the
big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them
from blowing away, looked like immense shells.
It was strange that even the sea seemed to sound
differently when all those leaping, laughing figures
ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a lilac
cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin,
gathered her little brood and got them ready. The
little Trout boys whipped their shirts over
their heads, and away the five sped, while their
grandma sat with one hand in her knitting-bag
ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was
satisfied they were safely in.

The firm compact little girls were not half so brave
as the tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pip and
Rags, shivering, crouching down, slapping the water,
never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim
twelve strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim
eight, only followed on the strict understanding they
were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she didn't
follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own
way, please. And that way was to sit down at the
edge of the water, her legs straight, her knees
pressed together, and to make vague motions with
her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea.
But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery
one, came lolloping along in her direction, she scram-
bled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the
beach again.

AT THE BAY

did not fall. When she was not playing bridge —
she played bridge every day of her life — she spent
her time lying in the full glare of the sun. She
could stand any amount of it; she never had enough.
All the same, it did not seem to warm her.
Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the
stones like a piece of tossed-up driftwood. The
women at the Bay thought she was very, very fast.
Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated
men as though she was one of them, and the fact
that she didn't care twopence about her house and
called the servant Gladys "Glad-eyes," was disgrace-
ful. Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember
would call in her indifferent, tired voice, "I say,
Glad-eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if
I've got one, will you?" And Glad-eyes, a red bow
in her hair instead of a cap, and white shoes, came
running1 with an impudent smile. It was an absolute
scandal! True, she had no children, and her hus-
band. . . . Here the voices were always raised;
they became fervent. How can he have married
her? How can he, how can he? It must have
been money, of course, but even then !

Mrs. Kember's husband was at least ten years
younger than she was, and so incredibly handsome
that he looked like a mask or a most perfect illus-
tration in an American novel rather than a man.
Black hair, dark blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy
smile, a fine tennis player, a perfect dancer, and
with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a

AT THE BAY

man walking in his sleep. Men couldn't stand him,
they couldn't get a word out of the chap; he ignored
lis wife just as she ignored him. How did he live?
>f course there were stories, but such stories! They
simply couldn't be told. The women he'd been
seen with, the places he'd been seen in ... but
nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of
the women at the Bay privately thought he'd commit
a murder one day. Yes, even while they talked
to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction
she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay
on the beach ; but cold, bloody, and still with a cigar-
ette stuck in the corner of her mouth.

Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt
buckle, and tugged at the tape of her blouse. And
Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her jersey,
and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her
camisole with ribbon bows on the shoulders.

"Mercy on us," said Mrs. Harry Kember, "what
a little beauty you are!"

"Don't!" said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one
stocking and then the other, she felt a little beauty.

"My dear — why not?" said Mrs. Harry Kember,
stamping on her own petticoat. Really — her
underclothes ! A pair of blue cotton knickers and
a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a
pillow-case. . . . "And you don't wear stays, do
you?" She touched Beryl's waist, and Beryl sprang
away with a small affected cry. Then "Never!"
she said firmly.

AT THE BAY

"Lucky little creature," sighed Mrs. Kember, un
fastening her own.

Beryl turned her back and began the complicated
movements of some one who is trying to take off
her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dress all at
one and the same time.

"Oh, my dear — don't mind me," said Mrs. Harry
Kember. "Why be shy? I shan't eat you. I
shan't be shocked like those other ninnies." And
she gave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced
at the other women.

But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front
of anybody. Was that silly? Mrs. Harry Kem-
ber made her feel it was silly, even something to be
ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced
quickly at her friend standing so boldly in her torn
chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette ; and a quick,
bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laugh-
ing recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling
bathing-dress that was not quite dry and fastened
the twisted buttons.

"That's better," said Mrs. Harry Kember.
They began to go down the beach together.
"Really, it's a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear.
Somebody's got to tell you some day."

The water was quite warm. It was that marvel-
lous transparent blue, flecked with silver, but the
sand at the bottom looked gold; when you kicked
with your toes there rose a little puff of gold-dust.
Now the waves just reached her breast. Beryl

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stood, her arms outstretched, gazing out, and as
each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, so
that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so
gently.

"I believe in pretty girls having a good time,"
said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why not? Don't
you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself."
And suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and
swam away quickly, quickly, like a rat. Then she
flicked round and began swimming back. She was
going to say something else. Beryl felt that she
was being poisoned by this cold woman, but she
longed to hear. But oh, how strange, how horrible 1
As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked,
in her black waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy
face lifted above the water, just her chin touching,
like a horrible caricature of her husand.

In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that
grew in the middle of the front grass patch, Linda
Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did noth-
ing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves
of the manuka, at the chinks of blue between, and
now and again a tiny yellowish flower dropped on
her. Pretty — yes, if you held one of those flowers
on the palm of your hand and looked at it closely,
it was an exquisite small thing. Each pale yellow
petal shone as if each was the careful work of a

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loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave
it the shape of a bell. And when you turned it over
the outside was a deep bronze colour. But as soon
as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You
brushed them off your frock as you talked; the
horrid little things got caught in one's hair. Why,
then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble — or the
joy — to make all these things that are wasted,
wasted. ... It was uncanny.

On the grass beside her, lying between two
pillows, was the boy. Sound asleep he lay, his head
turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair
looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but
his ear was a bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her
hands above her head and crossed her feet. It was
very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were
empty, that everybody was down on the beach, out
of sight, out of hearing. She had the garden to her-
self; she was alone.

Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden-
eyed marigolds glittered; the nasturtiums wreathed
the veranda poles in green and gold flame. If only
one had time to look at these flowers long enough,
time to get over the sense of novelty and strange-
ness, time to know them ! But as soon as one
paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side
of the leaf, along came Life and one was swept
away. And, lying in her cane chair, Linda felt so
light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life like
a wind and she was seized and shaken; she had to

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go. Oh dear, would it always be so? Was there
no escape?

. . . Now she sat on the veranda of their Tas-
manian home, leaning against her father's knee.
And he promised, "As soon as you and I are old
enough, Linny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape.
Two boys together. I have a fancy I'd like to saii!
up a river in China." Linda saw that river, very
wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw
the yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their
high, thin voices as they called . . .

"Yes, papa."

But just then a very broad young man with bright
ginger hair walked slowly past their house, and
slowly, solemnly even, uncovered. Linda's father
pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had.

"Linny's beau," he whispered.

"Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Bur-
nell!"

Well, she was married to him. And what was
more she loved him. Not the Stanley whom every
one saw, not the everyday one; but a timid, sensi-
tive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night
to say his prayers, and who longed to be good.
Stanley was simple. If he believed in people — as he
believed in her, for instance — it was with his whole
heart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell
a lie. And how terribly he suffered if he thought
any one — she — was not being dead straight, dead
sincere with him! "This is too subtle for me!"

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He flung out the words, but his open, quivering, dis-
traught look was like the look of a trapped beast.

But the trouble was — here Linda felt almost in-
clined to laugh, though Heaven knows it was no
laughing matter — she saw her Stanley so seldom.
There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of
calm, but all the rest of the time it was like living
in a house that couldn't be cured of the habit of
catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every
day. And it was always Stanley who was in the
thick of the danger. Her whole time was spent in
rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him
down, and listening to his story. And what was
left of her time was spent in the dread of having
children.

Linda frowned ; she sat up quickly in her steamer
chair and clasped her ankles. Yes, that was her
real grudge against life ; that was what she could not
understand. That was the question she asked and
asked, and listened in vain for the answer. It was
all very well to say it was the common lot of women
to bear children. It wasn't true. She, for one,
could prove that wrong. She was broken, made
weak, her courage was gone, through child-bearing.
And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she did
not love her children. It was useless pretending.
Even if she had had the strength she never would
have nursed and played with the little girls. No,
it was as though a cold breath had chilled her
through and through on each of those awful jour-

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eys; she had no warmth left to give them. As to

e boy — well, thank Heaven, mother had taken
im; he was mother's, or Beryl's, or anybody's who
anted him. She had hardly held him in her arms,
he was so indifferent about him that as he lay

ere . . . Linda glanced down.

The boy had turned over. He lay facing her,
and he was no longer asleep. His dark-blue, baby
eyes were open; he looked as though he was peep-
ing1 at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled;
it broke into a wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam,
no less.

"I'm herel" that happy smile seemed to say.
"Why don't you like me?"

There was something so quaint, so unexpected
about that smile that Linda smiled herself. But
she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, "I
don't like babies."

"Don't like babies?" The boy couldn't believe
her. "Don't like me?" He waved his arms fool-
ishly at his mother.

Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass.

"Why do you keep on smiling?" she said severely.
"If you knew what I was thinking about, you

» wouldn't."
But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled
his head on the pillow. He didn't believe a word
she said.

"We know all about that!" smiled the boy.
Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this

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little creature. ... Ah no, be sincere. That was
not what she felt; it was something far different, it
was something so new, so ... The tears danced
in her eyes; she breathed in a small whisper to the
boy, "Hallo, my funny!"

But by now the boy had forgotten his mother.
He was serious again. Something pink, something
soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at it
and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay
back, another, like the first, appeared. This time
he determined to catch it. He made a tremendous
effort and rolled right over.

VII

The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily
flopped the warm sea. The sun beat down, beat
down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the grey
and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It
sucked up the little drop of water that lay in the
hollow of the curved shells; it bleached the pink con-
volvulus that threaded through and through the
sand-hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small
sand-hoppers. Pit-pit-pit! They were never still.

Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked
at low tide like shaggy beasts come down to the
water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin like a
silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools.
They danced, they quivered, and minute ripples
laved the porous shores. Looking down, bending

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>ver, each pool was like a lake with pink and blue
houses clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast
mountainous country behind those houses — the ra-
vines, the passes, the dangerous creeks and fearful
tracks that led to the water's edge. Underneath
waved the sea-forest — pink thread-like trees, velvet
anemones, and orange berry-spotted weeds. Now a
stone on the bottom moved, rocked, and there was a
glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread-like creature
wavered by and was lost. Something was happen-
ing to the pink, waving trees; they were changing
to a cold moonlight blue. And now there sounded
the faintest "plop." Who made that sound? What
was going on down there? And how strong, how
damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun. . . .

The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows
of the summer colony. Over the verandas, prone
on the paddock, flung over the fences, there were
exhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped
towels. Each back window seemed to have a pair
of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps of rock
or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The
iush quivered in a haze of heat; the sandy road
empty except for the Trouts' dog Snooker, who
lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye
'as turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave
in occasional desperate-sounding puff, as much as to
jay he had decided to make an end of it and was only
raiting for some kind cart to come along.
''What are you looking at, my grandma? Why
29

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do you keep stopping and sort of staring at the
wall?"

Kezia and her grandmother were taking their
siesta together. The little girl, wearing only her
short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms and
legs bare, lay on one -of the puffed-up pillows of her
grandma's bed, and the old woman, in a white
ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at the window,
with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This
room that they shared, like the other rooms of the
bungalow, was of light varnished wood and the floor
was bare. The furniture was of the shabbiest, the
simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a
packing-case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the
mirror above was very strange; it was as though a
little piece of forked lightning was imprisoned in
it. On the table there stood a jar of sea-pinks,
pressed so tightly together they looked more like
a velvet pincushion, and a special shell which Kezia
had given her grandma for a pin-tray, and another
even more special which she had thought would
make a very nice place for a watch to curl up in.

"Tell me, grandma," said Kezia.

The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice
round her thumb, and drew the bone needle through.
She was casting on.

"I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling,"
she said quietly.

"My Australian Uncle William?" said Kezia.
She had another.

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"Yes, of course."

"The one I never saw?"

"That was the one."

"Well, what happened to him?" Kezia knew
>erfectly well, but she wanted to be told again.

"He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke
there and died," said old Mrs. Fairfield.

Kezia blinked and considered the picture again

. . a little man fallen over like a tin soldier by
the side of a big black hole.

"Does it make you sad to think about him,
grandma?" She hated her grandma to be sad.

It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did
it make her sad? To look back, back. To stare
down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To
look after them as a woman does, long after they
were out of sight. Did it make her sad? No, life
was like that.

"No, Kezia."

"But why?" asked Kezia. She lifted one bare
arm and began to draw things in the air. "Why
did Uncle William have to die? He wasn't old."

Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in
threes. "It just happened," she said in an absorbed
voice.

"Does everybody have to die?" asked Kezia.

"Everybody!"

"Me?" Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous.

"Some day, my darling."

§"But, grandma." Kezia waved her left leg and
31

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waggled the toes. They felt sandy. "What If I
just won't?"

The old woman sighed again and drew a long
thread from the ball.

"We're not asked, Kezia," she said sadly. "It
nappens to all of us sooner or later."

Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn't
want to die. It meant she would have to leave here,
leave everywhere, for ever, leave — leave her
grandma. She rolled over quickly.

"Grandma," she said in a startled voice.

"What, my pet!"

"You're not to die." Kezia was very decided.

"Ah, Kezia" — her grandma looked up and smiled
and shook her head — "don't let's talk about it."

"But you're not to. You couldn't leave me.
You couldn't not be there." This was awful.
"Promise me you won't ever do it, grandma,"
pleaded Kezia.

The old woman went on knitting.

"Promise me! Say never!"

But still her grandma was silent.

Kezia rolled off the bed; she couldn't bear it any
longer, and lightly she leapt on to her grandma's
knees, clasped her hands round the1 old woman's
throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind
the ear, and blowing down her neck.

"Say never . . . say never . . . say never "

She gasped between the kisses. And then she be-
gan, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma.

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"Kezia !" The old woman dropped her knitting.
She swung back in the rocker. She began to tickle
Kezia. "Say never, say never, say never," gurgled
Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other's
arms. "Come, that's enough, my squirrel! That's
enough, my wild pony!" said old Mrs. Fairfield, set-
ting her cap straight. "Pick up my knitting."

Both of them had forgotten what the "never"
was about.

VIII

The sun was still full on the garden when the
back door of the Burnells' shut with a bang, and a
very gay figure walked down the path to the gate.
It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her after-
noon out. She wore a white cotton dress with such
large red spots on it and so many that they made you
shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up under
the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves,,
white ones, stained at the fastenings with iron-
mould, and in one hand she carried a very dashed-
looking sunshade which she referred to as her
perishall.

Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly*
washed hair, thought she had never seen such a
guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with a
piece of cork before she started out, the picture
would have been complete. And where did a girl
like that go to in a place like this? The heart-shaped

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Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane.
She supposed Alice had picked up some horrible
common larrikin and they'd go off into the bush to-
gether. Pity to make herself so conspicuous; they'd
have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig-out.

But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to
tea with Mrs. Stubbs, who'd sent her an "invite" by
the little boy who called for orders. She had
taken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since
the first time she went to the shop to get something
for her mosquitoes.

"Dear heart!" Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her
hand to her side. "I never seen any one so eaten.
You might have been attacked by canningbals."

Alice did wish there'd been a bit of life on
the road though. Made her feel so queer, having
nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in the
spine. She couldn't believe that some one wasn't
watching her. And yet it was silly to turn round;
it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves,
hummed to herself and said to the distant gum-tree,
"Shan't be long now." But that was hardly com-
pany.

Mrs. Stubbs's shop was perched on a little hillock
just off the road. It had two big windows for eyes,
a broad veranda for a hat, and the sign on the roof,
scrawled MRS. STUBBS'S, was like a little card
stuck rakishly in the hat crown.

On the veranda there hung a long string of bath-
ing-dresses, clinging together as though they'd just

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been rescued from the sea rather than waiting to
go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of sand-
shoes so extraordinarily mixed that to get at one
pair you had to tear apart and forcibly separate at
least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing to find
the left that belonged to the right. So many people
had lost patience and gone off with one shoe that
fitted and one that was a little too big. . . . Mrs.
Stubbs prided herself on keeping something of every-
thing. The two windows, arranged in the form of
precarious pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so
high, that it seemed only a conjuror could prevent
them from toppling over. In the left-hand corner
of one window, glued to the pane by four gelatine
lozenges, there was — and there had been from time
immemorial — a notice.

LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH

SOLID GOLD

ON OR NEAR BEACH

REWARD OFFERED

Alice pressed open .the door. The bell jangled,
the red serge curtains parted, and Mrs. Stubbs
appeared. With her broad smile and the long
bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly
brigand. Alice was welcomed so warmly that she
found it quite difficult to keep up her "manners."
They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems,
pulls at her gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious

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difficulty in seeing what was set before her or
understanding what was said.

Tea was laid on the parlour table — ham, sar-
dines, a whole pound of butter, and such a large
johnny cake that it looked like an advertisement for
homebody's baking-powder. But the Primus stove
roared so loudly that it was useless to try to talk
above it. Alice sat down on the edge of a basket-
chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove still
higher. Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cush-
ion off a chair and disclosed a large brown-paper
parcel.

"I've just had some new photers taken, my dear,"
she shouted cheerfully to Alice. "Tell me what you
think of them."

In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger
and put the tissue back from the first one. Life!
'How many there were ! There were three dozzing
at least. And she held it up to the light.

Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very
much to one side. There was a look of mild aston-
ishment on her large face, and well there might be.
For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the
left of it, miraculously skirting the carpet-border,
there was a dashing water-fall. On her right stood
a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree on either side
of it, and in the background towered a gaunt moun-
tain, pale with snow.

"It is a nice style, isn't it?" shouted Mrs. Stubbs;
and Alice had just screamed "Sweetly" when the

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roaring of the Primus stove died down, fizzled out,
ceased, and she said "Pretty" in a silence that wa3
frightening.

"Draw up your chair, my dear," said Mrs.
Stubbs, beginning to pour out. "Yes," she said
thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, "but I don't
care about the size. I'm having an enlargemint.
All very well for Christmas cards, but I never was
the one for small photers myself. You get no com-
fort out of them. To say the truth, I find them
dis'eartening."

Alice quite saw what she meant.

"Size," said Mrs. Stubbs. "Give me size.
That was what my poor dear husband was always
saying. He couldn't stand anything small. Gave
him the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my
dear" — here Mrs. Stubbs creaked and seemed to
expand herself at the memory — "it was dropsy that
carried him off at the larst. Many's the time they
drawn one and a half pints from 'im at the
'ospital It seemed like a judgmint."

Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was
drawn from him. She ventured, "I suppose it was
water."

But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and
replied meaningly, "It was liquid, my dear."

Liquid ! Alice jumped away from the word like
a cat and came back to it, nosing and wary.

"That's 'im!" said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed
dramatically to the life-size head and shoulders of

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a burly man with a dead white rose in the button-
hole of his coat that made you think of a curl of
cold mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a
red cardboard ground, were the words, "Be not
afraid, it is I."

"It's ever such a fine face," said Alice faintly.

The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs's
fair frizzy hair quivered. She arched her plump
neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink
where it began and then it changed to warm
apricot, and that faded to the colour of a brown egg
and then to a deep creamy.

"All the same, my dear," she said surprisingly,
"freedom's best!" Her soft, fat chuckle sounded
like a purr. "Freedom's best," said Mrs. Stubbs
again.

Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter.
She felt awkward. Her mind flew back to her own
kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back
in it again.

A strange company assembled in the Burnells'
vrashhouse after tea. Round the table there sat a
bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it
was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse
was the perfect place for such a meeting because
they could make as much noise as they liked, and
nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed

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standing apart from the bungalow. Against the
wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a
copper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it.
The little window, spun over with cobwebs, had a
piece of candle and a -mouse-trap on the dusty sill.
There were clotheslines criss-crossed overhead and,
hanging from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge,
rusty horseshoe. The table was in the middle with
a form at either side.

"You can't be a bee, Kezia. A bee's not an
animal. It's a ninseck."

"Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully,"
wailed Kezia. ... A tiny bee, all yellow-furry,
with striped legs. She drew her legs up under
her and leaned over the table. She felt she was a
bee.

"A ninseck must be an animal," she said stoutly.
"It makes a noise. It's not like a fish."

"I'm a bull, I'm a bull !" cried Pip. And he gave
such a tremendous bellow — how did he make that
noise? — that Lottie looked quite alarmed.

"I'll be a sheep," said little Rags. "A whole
lot of sheep went past this morning."

"How do you know?"

"Dad heard them. Baa!" He sounded like the
little lamb that trots behind and seems to wait to be
carried.

"Cock-a-doodle-do!" shrilled Isabel. With her
red cheeks and bright eyes she looked like a rooster.

"What'll I be?" Lottie asked everybody, and she

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sat there smiling, waiting for them to decide for
her. It had to be an easy one.

"Be a donkey, Lottie." It was Kezia's sug-
gestion. "Hee-haw! You can't forget that."

"Hee-haw I" said Lottie solemnly. "When do I
have to say it?"

"I'll explain, I'll explain," said the bull. It was
he who had the cards. He waved them round his
head. "All be quiet! All listen!" And he waited
for them. "Look here, Lottie." He turned up
a card. "It's got two spots on it — see? Now, if
you put that card in the middle and somebody else
has one with two spots as well, you say 'Hee-haw,'
and the card's yours."

"Mine?" Lottie was round-eyed. "To keep?"

"No, silly. . Just for the game, see? Just while
we're playing." The bull was very cross with her.

"Oh, Lottie, you are a little silly," said the proud
rooster.

Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung
her head; her lip quivered. "I don't not want to
play," she whispered. The others glanced at one
another like conspirators. All of them knew what
that meant. She would go away and be discovered
somewhere standing with her pinny thrown over her
head, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind
•a chair.

"Yes, you do, Lottie. It's quite easy," said
Kezia.

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And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-
up, "Watch me, Lottie, and you'll soon learn." ,

"Cheer up, Lot," said Pip. "There, I know
what I'll do. I'll give you the first one. It's mine,
really, but I'll give it to you. Here you are."
And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie.

Lottie revived at that. But now she was in
another difficulty. "I haven't got a hanky," she
said; "I want one badly, too."

"Here, Lottie, you can use mine." Rags dipped
into his sailor blouse and brought up a very wet-
looking one, knotted together. "Be very careful,"
he warned her. "Only use that corner. Don't un-
do it. I've got a little starfish inside I'm going to
try and tame."

"Oh, come on, you girls," said the bull. "And
mind — you're not to look at your cards. You've
got to keep your hands under the table till I say
'Go.' "

Smack went the cards round the table. They
tried with all their might to see, but Pip was too
quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting there
in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to
burst into a little chorus of animals before Pip had
finished dealing.

"Now', Lottie, you begin."

Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top
card off her pack, had a good look at it — it was
plain she was counting the spots — and put it down.

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"No, Lottie, you can't do that. You mustn't
look first. You must turn it the other way over."

"But then everybody will see it the same time as
me," said Lottie.

The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er ! The bull
was terrible. He charged over the table and
seemed to eat the cards up.

Bss-ss ! said the bee.

Cock-a-doodle-do ! Isabel stood up in her ex-
citement and moved her elbows like wings.

Baa ! Little Rags put down the King of Dia-
monds and Lottie put down the one they called the
King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left.

"Why don't you call out, Lottie?"

"I've forgotten what I am," said the donkey woe-
fully.

"Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow-
wow!"

"Oh yes. That's much easier." Lottie smiled
again. But when she and Kezia both had a one
Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs
to Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she
looked bewildered, and at last she said, "Hee-haw I
Ke-zia."

"Ss ! Wait a minute !" They were in the very
thick of it when the bull stopped them, holding up
his hand. "What's that? What's that noise?"

"What noise? What do you mean?" asked the
rooster.

"Ss! Shut up! Listen!" They were mouse-
42

AT THE BAY

still. "I thought I heard a — a sort of knocking,"
said the bull.

"What was it like?" asked the sheep faintly.

No answer.

The bee gave a shudder. "Whatever did we
shut the door for?" she said softly. Oh, why, wh)
had they shut the door?

While they were playing, the day had faded; the
gorgeous sunset had blazed and died. And now
the quick dark came racing over the sea, over the
sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to
look in the corners of the washhouse, and yet you
had to look with all your might. And somewhere,
far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The
blinds were being pulled down; the kitchen fire
leapt in the tins on the mantelpiece.

"It would be awful now," said the bull, "if a
spider was to fall from the ceiling on to the table,
wouldn't it?"

"Spiders don't fall from ceilings."

"Yes, they do. Our Min told us she'd seen a
spider as big as a saucer, with long hairs on it like
a gooseberry."

Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all
the little bodies drew together, pressed together.

"Why doesn't somebody come and call us?" cried
the rooster.

Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting
in the lamp-light, drinking out of cups ! They'd
forgotten about them. No, not really forgotten.

AT THE BAY

That was what their smile meant. They had de-
cided to leave them there all by themselves.

Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that
all of them jumped off the forms, all of them
screamed too. "A face — a face looking!" shrieked
Lottie.

It was true, it was real. Pressed against the
window was a pale face, black eyes, a black beard.

"Grandma! Mother! Somebody!"

But they had not got to the door, tumbling over
one another, before it opened for Uncle Jonathan.
He had come to take the little boys home.

He had meant to be there before, but in the front
garden he had come upon Linda walking up and
down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead pink or
give a top-heavy carnation something to lean
against, or to take a deep breath of something, and
then walking on again, with her little air of remote-
ness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow,
pink-fringed shawl from the Chinaman's shop.

"Hallo, Jonathan!" called Linda. And Jona-
than whipped off his shabby panama, pressed it
against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed
Linda's hand.

"Greeting, my Fair One ! Greeting, my Celestial
Peach Blossom!" boomed the bass voice gently.
"Where are the other noble dames?"

AT THE BAY

"Beryl's out playing bridge and mother's giving
the boy his bath. . . . Have you come to borrow ;
something?"

The Trouts were for ever running out of things
and sending across to the Burnells' at the last mo-
ment.

But Jonathan only answered, "A little love, a
little kindness"; and he walked by his sister-in-law's
side.

Linda dropped into Beryl's hammock under
the manuka-tree, and Jonathan stretched himself
on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and
began chewing it. They knew each other well.
The voices of children cried from the other
gardens. A fisherman's light cart shook along
the sandy road, and from far away they heard
a dog barking; it was muffled as though the
dog had its head in a sack. If you listened
you could just hear the soft swish of the sea
at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was
sinking.

"And so you go back to the office on Monday,
do you, Jonathan?" asked Linda.

"On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to
upon the victim for another eleven months and a
week," answered Jonathan.

Linda swung a little. "It must be awful," she
said slowly.

"Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister?
Would ye have me weep?"

AT THE BAY

Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan's way of
talking that she paid no attention to it.

"I suppose," she said vaguely, "one gets used to
it. One gets used to anything."

"Does one? Hum!" The "Hum" was so deep
it seemed to boom from underneath the ground.
"I wonder how it's done," brooded Jonathan; "I've
never managed it."

Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought
again how attractive he was. It was strange to
think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that Stan-
ley earned twice as much money as he. What was
the matter with Jonathan? He had no ambition;
she supposed that was it. And yet one felt he was
gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of
music; every spare penny he had went on books.
He was always full of new ideas, schemes, plans.
But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in
Jonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he
explained, described and dilated on the new thing;
but a moment later it had fallen in and there was
nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with a
look like hunger in his black eyes. At these times
he exaggerated his absurd manner of speaking, and
he sang in church — he was the leader of the choir —
with su:h fearful dramatic intensity that the
meanest hymn put on an unholy splendour.

"It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal,
to have to go to the office on Monday," said Jona-
than, "as it always has done and always will do.

AT THE BAY

To spend all the best years of one's life sitting on
a stool from nine to five, scratching in somebody's
ledger! It's a queer use to make of one's . . .
one and only life, isn't it? Or do I fondly dream?"
He rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda.
"Tell me, what is the difference between my life
and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only dif-
ference I can see is that I put myself in jail and no-
body's ever going to let me out. That's a more
intolerable situation than the other. For if I'd
been — pushed in, against my will — kicking, even —
once the door was locked, or at any rate in five years
or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to
take an interest in the flight of flies or counting the
warder's steps along the passage with particular
attention to variations of tread and so on. But as
it is, I'm like an insect that's flown into a room of
its own accord. I dash against the walls, dash
against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do
everything on God's earth, in fact, except fly out
again. And all the while I'm thinking, like that
moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, 'The short*
ness of life! The shortness of life!' I've only
one night or one day, and there's this vast danger*
ous garden, waiting out there, undiscovered, un»
explored."

"But, if you feel like that, why " began

.Linda quickly.

"Ah!" cried Jonathan. And that "ah!" was
somehow almost exultant. "There you have me,

AT THE BAY

Why? Why indeed? There's the mad3ening,
mysterious question. Why don't I fly out again ?
There's the window or the door or whatever it was
I came in by. It's not hopelessly shut — is it?
Why don't I find it and be off? Answer me
that, little sister." But he gave her no time to
answer.

"I'm exactly like that insect again. For some
reason" — Jonathan paused between the words —
"it's not allowed, it's forbidden, it's against the in-
sect law, to stop banging and 'flopping and crawl-
ing up the pane even for an instant. Why don't
I leave the office? Why don't I seriously consider,
this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents
me leaving? It's not as though I'm tremendously
tied. I've two boys to provide for, but, after all,
they're boys. I could cut off to sea, or get a job

up-country, or " Suddenly he smiled at Linda

and said in a changed voice, as if he were confiding
a secret, "Weak . . . weak. No stamina. No
anchor. No gufding principle, let us call it." But
then the dark velvety voice rolled out:

Would ye hear the story

How it unfolds itself . . .
and they were silent.

The sun had set. In the western sky there were
great masses of crushed-up rose-coloured clouds.
Broad beams of light shone through the clouds and
beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky.
Overhead the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and

AT THE BAY

the bush outlined against it gleamed dark and bril-
liant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of
light show in the sky they are very awful. They
remind you that up there sits Jehovah, the jealous
God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever
watchful, never weary. You remember that at
His coming the whole earth will shake into one
ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive
you this way and that, and there will be no time to-
explain what could be explained so simply. . . .
But to-night it seemed to Linda there was some-
thing infinitely joyful and loving in those silver
beams. And now no sound came from the sea.
It breathed softly as if it would draw that tender,
joyful beauty into its own bosom.

"It's all wrong, it's all wrong," came the shad-
owy voice of Jonathan. "It's not the scene, it's
not the setting for . . . three stools, three desks,
three inkpots and a wire blind."

Linda knew that he would never change, but
sne said, "Is it too late, even now?"

"I'm old — I'm old," intoned Jonathan. He bent
towards her, he passed his hand over his head.
"Look!" His black hair was speckled all over
with silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl.

Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he
was grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and
sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first time,
not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched
already with age. He looked very tall on the

AT THE BAY

darkening grass, and the thought crossed her mind,
"He is like a weed."

Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers.

"Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,"
he murmured. "I must go seek those heirs to my
fame and fortune. . . ." He was gone.

Light shone in the windows of the bungalow.
Two square patches of gold fell upon the pinks
and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came
out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her
white paws close together, her tail curled round.
She looked content, as though she had been wait-
ing for this moment all day.

"Thank goodness, it's getting late," said Florrie.
"Thank goodness, the long day is over.". Her
greengage eyes opened.

Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach,
the crack of Kelly's whip. It came near enough for
one to hear the voices of the men from town, talk-
ing loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells'
gate.

Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw
Linda. "Is that you, darling?"

"Yes, Stanley."

He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her
in his arms. She was enfolded in that familiar,
sager, strong embrace.

AT THE BAY

"Forgive me, darling, forgive me," stammered
Stanley, and he put his hand under her chin and
lifted her face to him.

"Forgive you?" smiled Linda. "But whatever
for?"

"Good God! You can't have forgotten," cried
Stanley Burnell. "I've thought of nothing else all
day. I've had the hell of a day. I made up my
mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought
the wire mightn't reach you before I did. I've
been in tortures, Linda."

"But Stanley," said Linda, "what must I forgive
you for?"

"Linda!"- — Stanley was very hurt — "didn't you
realize — you must have realized — I went away
without saying good-bye to you this morning? I
can't imagine how I can have done such a thing.
My confounded temper, of course. But — well" —
and he sighed and took her in his arms again —
"I've suffered for it enough to-day."

"What's that you've got in your hand?" asked
Linda. "New gloves? Let me see."

"Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather ones," said
Stanley humbly. "I noticed Bell was wearing some
in the coach this morning, so, as I was passing the
shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What
are you smiling at? You don't think it was wr jng
of me, do you?"

"On the coH-trary, darling," said Linda, "I think
it was most sensible."

AT THE BAY

She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her
own fingers and looked at her hand, turning it this
way and that. She was still smiling.

Stanley wanted to say, "I was thinking of you the
whole time I bought them." It was true, but for
some reason he couldn't say it. "Let's go in,"
said he.

XII

Why does one feel so different at night? Why
is it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is
asleep ? Late — it is very late 1 And yet every
moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though
you were slowly, almost with every breath, waking
:ip into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling and
exciting world than the daylight one. And what is
this queer sensation that you're a conspirator?
Lightly, stealthily you move about your room.
You take something off the dressing-table and put
it down again without a sound. And everything,
even the bed-post, knows you, responds, shares your
secret. . . .

You're not very fond of your room by day.
You never think about it. You're in and out, the
door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You
sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes
and dash out again. A dive down to the glass,
two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off
again. But now — it's suddenly dear to you. It's

AT THE BAY

a darling little funny room. It's yours. Oh, what
a joy it is to own things ! Mine — my own !

"My very own for ever?"

"Yes." Their lips met.

No, of course, that had nothing to do with it.
That was all nonsense and rubbish. But, in spite
of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people stand-
ing in the middle of her room. Her arms were
round his neck; he held her. And now he whis-
pered, "My beauty, my little beauty I" She jumped
off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on
the window-seat, with her elbows on the sill. But
the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every
leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were
conspirators too. So bright was the moon that
the flowers were bright as by day; the shadow
of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like leavej and
wide-open flowers, lay across the silvery ver-
anda. The manuka-tree, bent by the southerly
winds, was like a bird on one leg stretching out a
wing.

But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to
her the bush was sad.

"We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night,
imploring we know not what," said the sorrowful
bush.

It is true when you are by yourself and you think
about life, it is always sad. All that excitement
and so on has a way of suddenly leaving vou, and
it's as though, in the silence, somebody called you*

AT THE BAY

name, and you heard your name for the first time.
"Beryl!"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm Beryl, Who wants me?"

"Beryl!"

"Let me come."

It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there
are relations, friends^ heaps of them; but that's not
what she means. She wants some one who will find
the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect
her to be that Beryl always. She wants a lover.

"Take me away from all these other people, my
love. Let us go far away. Let us live our life,
all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let us
make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together.
Let us have long talks at night."

And the thought was almost, "Save me, my love.
Save me!"

. . . "Oh, go on! Don't be a prude, my dear.
You enjoy yourself while you're young. That's my
advice." And a high rush of silly laughter joined
Mrs. Harry Kember's loud, indifferent neigh.

You see, it's so frightfully difficult when you've
nobody. You're so at the mercy of things. You
can't just be rude. And you've always this horror
of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other
ninnies at the Bay. And — and it's fascinating to
know you've power over people. Yes, that is fas-
cinating. . . .

Oh why, oh why doesn't "he" come soon?

AT THE BAY

If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything
may happen to me.

"But how do you know he is coming at all?"
mocked a small voice within her.

But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left.
Other people, perhaps, but not she. It wasn't
possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married,
that lovely fascinating girl.

"Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?"

"Remember her! As if I could forget her! It
was one summer at the Bay that I saw her. She
was standing on the beach in a blue" — no, pink —
"muslin frock, holding on a big cream" — no, black
— "straw hat. But it's years ago now."

"She's as lovely as ever, more so if anything."

Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the gar-
den. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man,
leave the road, step along the paddock beside their
palings as if he was coming straight towards her.
Her heart beat. Who was it? Who could it be?
It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not a burglar,
for he was smoking and he strolled lightly.
Beryl's heart leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and
then to stop. She recognized him.

"Good evening, Miss Beryl," said the voice
softly.

"Good evening."

"Won't you come for a little walk?" it drawled.

Come for a walk — at that time of night! "I

AT THE BAY

couldn't. Everybody's in bed. Everybody's
asleep."

"Oh," said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet
smoke reached her. "What does everybody
matter? Do come! It's such a fine night.
There's not a soul about."

Beryl shook her head. But already something
stirred in her, something reared its head.

The voice said, "Frightened?" It mocked,
"Poor little girl!"

"Not in the least," said she. As she spoke that
weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow
suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to go!

And just as if this was quite understood by the
other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally,
"Come along!"

Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the
veranda, ran down the grass to the gate. He was
there before her.

"That's right," breathed the voice, and it teased,
"You're not frightened, are you? You're not
frightened?"

She was; now she was here she was terrified, and
it seemed to her everything was different. The
moonlight stared and glittered; the shadows were
like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.

"Not in the least," she said lightly. "Why
should I be?"

Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held
back.

AT THE BAY

"No, I'm not coming any farther," said Beryl.

"Oh, rot!" Harry Kember didn't believe her.
"Come along! We'll just go as far as that fuchsia
bush. Come along!"

The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence
in a shower. There was a little pit of darkness be-
neath.

"No, really, I don't want to," said Beryl.

For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer.
Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled
and said quickly, "Don't be silly! Don't be silly!"

His smile was something she'd never seen before.
Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying
smile froze her with horror. What was she doing?
How had she got here? the stern garden asked her
as the gate pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry
Kember came through and snatched her to him.

"Cold little devil! Cold little devil!" said the
hateful voice.

But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked,
wrenched free.

"You are vile, vile," said she.,

"Then why in God's name did you come?" stam-
mered Harry Kember.

Nobody answered him.

XIII

A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon.
57

AT THE BAY

In that moment of darkness the sea sounded
deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away,
and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur,
as though it waked out of a dark dream. All was
still.

THE GARDEN-PARTY

wj»53-ft^- /[ c^"_

ND after all the weather was ideal. fTKeg^
could not have had a more perfect day for
a garden-party if they had ordered it.^,,
Endless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only
the blue w£s veiled with a haze of light gold, as
it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener
had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and
sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat
rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to
shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling
they understood that roses are the only flowers that
impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers
that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds,
yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single
night; the green bushes bowed down as though they
had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came
to put up the marquee.

"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"

"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm de-
termined to leave everything to you children this
year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as
an honoured guest."

But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the

THE GARDEN-PARTY

men. i She! had washed her hair before breakfast,
and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban,
with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose,
1 the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat
;|X v K^nd a kimono jacket.

"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic

Away Lau^ tiew, still holding her piece of bread-
and-butter. It's so delicious to have an excuse for

eating out of doors, and besides, she loved having to
arrange things; she always felt she could do it so
much better than anybody else.

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped to-
gether on the garden path. They carried staves
covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-
bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive.
Laura wished now that she had not got the bread-
and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she
couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and
tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted
as she came up to them.

"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's
voice. But that sounded so fearfully affected that
she was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl,
"Oh — er — have you come — is it about the mar-
quee?"

"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men,
a lanky, freckled fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag,
knocked back his straw hat and smiled down at her.
"That's about it."

^Vr ST -xo^ Cv^ *

THE GARDEN-PARTY

His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura
recovered. What nice eyes he had, small, but such
a dark blue! And now she looked at the others,
they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite,"
their smile seemed to say. How very nice workmen
were! And what a beautiful morning! She
mustn't mention the morning; she must be business-
like. The marquee.

"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that
do?"

And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand
that didn't hold the bread-and-butter. They turned,
they stared in the direction. A little fat chap(thrust
out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.

"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous
enough. You see, with a thing like a marquee," and
he turned to Laura in ji]s_easy_way, "you want to put
it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the
eye, if you follow me."

Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a mo-
ment whether it was quite respectful of a workman
to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she did
quite follow him.

"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested.

ut the band's going to be in one corner."

"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said an-
other of the workmen. He was pale. He had a
haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-
court. What was he thinking? ,

"Only a very small band," said Laura gently.
61

*« J> 7f¥*l *^

THE GARDEN-PARTY

Perhaps he wouldn't mind so much if the band was
quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted.

"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those,
trees. Over there. That'll do fine."

Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees
wouIcTbe hidden. And they were so lovely, with
their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of
'yellow fruit. They were* like trees you imagined
growing on a desert island, proud, solitary, lift-
ing their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of
silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a mar-
quee ?

They must. Already the men had shouldered
their staves and were making for the place. Only
the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a
sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to
his nose and snuffed up the smell. When Laura
saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in
her wonder at him caring for things like that — car-
ing for the smell of lavender. How many men
that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh,
how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she
thought. Why couldn't she have workmen for
friends rather than the silly boys she danced with
and who came to Sunday night supper? She would
get on much better with men like these.

It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow
drew something on the back of an envelope, some-
thing that was to be looped up or left to hang, of
these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part,

THE GARDEN-PARTY

she didn't feel them. Not a bit, not an atom. . . .
And now there came the chock-chock of wooden
hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out,
"Are you right there, matey?" "Matey!" The

friendliness of it, the — the Just to prove how

happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at
home she felt, and how she despised stupid conven-
tions, Laura took a big bite of her bread-and-butter
as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just
like a work-girl.

"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone,
Laura !" a voice cried from the house.

"Coming I" Away she skimmed, over the lawn,
up the path, up the steps, across the veranda, and
into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie
were brushing their hats ready to go to the office.

"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you
might just give a squiz at my coat before this after*
noon. See if it wants pressing."

"I will," said she. Suddenly sfye couldn't stop
herself. She ran at Laurie and gave him a small,
quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, don't you?"
gasped Laura.

"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice,
and he squeezed his sister too, and gave her a gentle
push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl."

The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty?
Good morning, dear. Come to lunch? Do, dear.
Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch
meal — just the sandwich crusts and broken mer-

THE GARDEN-PARTY

ingue-shells and what's left over. Yes, isn't it a per-
fect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly
should. One moment — hold the line. Mother's
calling." And Laura sat back. "What, mother?
Can't hear."

Mrs. Sheridan's voice-^ateoyiown the stairs.
"Tell her to wear that sweet Tiat she had on last
Sunday."

"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you
had on last Sunday. Good. One o'clock. Bye-
bye."

Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over
her head, took a deep breath, stretched and let them
fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment after the
sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening.
All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The
house was alive with soft, quick steps and running
voices. The green baize door that led to the kit-
chen regions swung open and shut with a muffled
thud. And now there came a long, chuckling ab-
surd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on
its stiff castors. ^But)the air! If you stopped to
notice, was the air always like this? Little faint
winds were playing chase, in at the tops of the win-
dows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny
spots of sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver
photograph frame, playing too. Darling little
spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It
was quite warm. A warm little silver star. She
could have kissed it.

THE GARDEN-PARTY

The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the
rustle of Sadie's print skirt on the stairs. A man's
voice murmured; Sadie answered, careless, "I'm
sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs. Sheridan."

"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall.

"It's the florist, Miss Laura."

It was, indeed. There, just inside the door,
stood a wide, shallow tray full of pots of pink lilies.
No other kind. Nothing but lilies — canna lilies,
big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost fright-
eningly alive on bright crimson stems.

"O-oh, Sadie I" said Laura, and the sound was
like a little moan. She crouched down as if to \ v
warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt they
were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her
breast.

"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "No-
body ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find
mother."

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.

"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I or-
dered them. Aren't they lovely?" She pressed
Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday,
and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly
thought for once in my life I shall have enough
canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good ex-
cuse."

"But I thought you said you didn't mean to inter-
fere," said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist's
man was still outside at his van. She put her arm

THE GARDEN-PARTY

round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she
bit her mother's ear.

"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical
mother, would you? Don't do that. Here's the
man."

He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.

"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides
of the porch, please," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't
you agree, Laura ?"

"Oh, I do, mother."

In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little
Hans had at last succeeded in moving the piano.

"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall
and move everything out of the room except th<?
chairs, don't you think?"

"Quite."

"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room,
and bring a sweeper to take these marks off the

carpet and — one moment, Hans " Jose loved

giving orders to the servants, and they loved obey-
ing her. She always made them feel they were
taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and
Miss Laura to come here at once."

"Very good, Miss Jose."

She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the
piano sounds like, just in case I'm asked to sing
this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is Weary.' '

Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee- ta ! The piano burst out so
passionately that Jose's face changed. She clasped
her hands. She looked mournfully and enigmat-

THE GARDEN- PARTY

ically at her mother and Laura as they came 1:1.

This Life is Wee-a.ry,

A Tear — a Sigh.

A Love that Chan-ges,

This Life is fFee-ary,
A Tear — a Sigh.
A Love that Chan-ges,
And then . . . Good-bye!

But at the word "Good-bye," and although the
piano sounded more desperate than ever, her face
broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic
smile.

"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed.

This Life is
Hope comes to Die.
A Dream — a

But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it,
Sadie?"

"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the
flags for the sandwiches?"

"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed
Mrs., Sheridan dreamily. And the children knew
by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me
see." And she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll
let her have them in ten minutes."

Sadie went.

"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly. "Come
with me into the smoking-room. I've got the

THE GARDEN-PARTY

names somewhere on the back of an envelope.
You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go
upstairs this minute and take that wet thing off your
head. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant.
Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell
your father when he comes home to-night? And —
and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen,
will you? I'm terrified of her this morning."

The envelope was found at last behind the din-
ing-room clock, though how it had got there Mrs.
Sheridan could not imagine.

"One of you children must have stolen it out of

my bag, because I remember vividly cream

cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that)?"

"Yes."

"Egg and " Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope

away from her. "It looks like mice. It can't be
mice, can it?"

"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoul-
der.

"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible com-
bination it sounds. Egg and olive."

They were finished at last, and Laura took them
off to the kitchen. She found Jose there pacifying
the cook, who did not look at all terrifying.

"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,"
said Jose's rapturous voice. "How many kinds did
you say there were, cook? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen, Miss Jose."

"Well, cook, I congratulate you.)"
68

THE GARDEN-PARTY

Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich
knife, and smiled broadly.

"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing
out of the pantry. She had seen the man pass the
window.

That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's
were famous for their cream puffs. Nobody ever
thought of making them at home.

"Bring them in and put them on the table, my
girl," ordered cook.

Sadie brought them in and went back to the door.
Of course Laura and Jose were far too grown-up to
really care about such things. All the same, they
couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very
attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them,
shaking off the extra icing sugar.

"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?"
said Laura.

"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who
never liked to be carried back. "They look beauti-
fully light and feathery, I must say."

"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her
comtortable voice. "Yer ma won't know."

Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after
breakfast. The very idea made one shudder. All
the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were
licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look
that only comes from whipped cream.

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way,"
suggested Laura. "I want to see how the men are

THE GARDEN-PARTY

getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully
nice men."

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie,
Godber's man and Hans.

Something had happened.

"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated
hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to her cheek as
though she had toothache. Hans's face was
screwed up in the effort to understand. Only God-
ber's man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was his
story.

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook.
"A man killed."

"A man killed! Where? How? When?"

But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story
snatched from under his very nose.

"Know those little cottages just below here,
miss?" Know them? Of course, she knew them.
"Well, there's a young chap living there, name of
Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-en-
gine, corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he
was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed."

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.

"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's
man with relish. "They were taking the body
home as I come up here." And he said to the cook,
"He's left a wife and five little ones."

"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her
sister's sleeve and dragged her through the kitchen

THE GARDEN-PARTY

to the other side of the green baize door. There
she paused and leaned against it. "Jose !" she said,
horrified, "however are we going to stop every-
thing?"

"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in as-
tonishment. "What do you mean?"

"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did
Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the gar-
den-party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd.
Of course we can't do anything of the kind. No-
body expects us to. Don't be so extravagant."

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with
a man dead just outside the front gate."

That really was extravagant, for the little cot-
tages were in a lane to themselves at the very bot-
tom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A
broad road ran between. True, they were far too
near. They were the greatest possible eyesore, and
they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at
all. They were little mean dwellings painted a
chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was
nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato
cans. The very smoke coming out of their chim-
neys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds
of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that un-
curled from the Sheridans' chimneys. Washer-
women lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler,
and a man whose house-front was studded all
over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed.

THE GARDEN-PARTY

When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden
to set foot there because of the revolting language
and of what they might catch. But since they were
grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls some-
times walked through. It was disgusting and sor-
did. They came out with a shudder. But still one
must go everywhere; one must see everything.
So through they went.

"And just think of what the band would sound
like to that poor woman," said Laura.

"Oh, Laura !" Jose began to be seriously an-
noyed. "If you're going to stop a band playing
every time some one has an accident, you'll lead a
very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about
it as you. I feel just as sympathetic." Her eyes
hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used
to when they were little and fighting together.
"You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by
being sentimental," she said softly.

"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura
turned furiously on Jose. She said, just as they
had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going
straight up to tell mother."

"Do, dear," cooed Jose.

"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura
turned the big glass door-knob.

"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter?
What's given you such a colour?" And Mrs.
Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table.
She was trying on a new hat.

THE GARDEN- PARTY

"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.

"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.

"No, no!"

"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sher-
idan sighed with relief, and took off the big hat and
held it on her knees.

"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless,
half-choking, she told the dreadful story. "Of
course, we can't have our party, can we?" she
pleaded. "The band and everybody arriving.
They'd hear us, mother; they're nearly neighbours !"

To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved
just like Jose; it was harder to bear because she
seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seri-
ously.

"But, my dear child, use your common sense.
It's only by accident we've heard of it. If some
one had died there normally — and I can't under-
stand how they keep alive in those poky little holes
— we should still be having our party, shouldn't
we?"

Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was
all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and
pinched the cushion frill.

"Mother, isn't it really terribly heartless of us?"
she asked.

"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came
over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could
stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said
her mother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you.

THE GARDEN-PARTY

It's much too young for me. I have never seen you
look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she
held up her hand-mirror.

"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't
look at herself; she turned aside.

This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as
Jose had done.

"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said
coldly. "People like that don't expect sacrifices
from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil
everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now."
> "I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked
quickly out of the room into her own bedroom.
There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was
this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat
trimmed with gold daisies, and a long black velvet
ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look
like that. Is mother right? she thought. And
now she hoped her mother was right. ^Am^I being
extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just
for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor
woman and those little children, and the body being
carried into the house. But it all seemed blurred,
unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remem-
ber it again after the party's over, she decided.
And somehow that seemed quite the best plan. . . .

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past
two they were all ready for the fray. The green-
coated band had arrived and was established in a
corner of the tennis-court.

THE GARDEN-PARTY

"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't
they too like frogs for words? You ought to have
arranged them round the pond with the conductor
in the middle on a leaf."

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way
to dress. At the sight of him Laura remembered
the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If
Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound
to be all right. And she followed him into the
hall.

"Laurie!"

"Hallo !" He was half-way upstairs, but when
he turned round and saw Laura he suddenly puffed
out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. "My
word, Laura ! You do look stunning," said Laurie.
"What an absolutely topping hat!"

Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at
Laurie, and didn't tell him after all.

Soon after that people began coming in streams.
The band struck up; the hired waiter ran from the
house to the marquee. Wherever you looked there
were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greet-
ing, moving on over the lawn. They were like
bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans' gar-
den for this one afternoon, on their way to — where?
Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all
are happy, to pre&sJiandsi press jjieeks, smile into
eyes. -—i

^'Darling Laura, how well you look!" Uv
/ "What a becoming hat, child!"

THE GARDEN-PARTY

"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen
you look so striking."

And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you
had tea? Won't you have an ice? The passion-
fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to her
father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the
band^have something to drink?"

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly
faded, .slowly its petals closed.
" "Never a more delightful garden-party . . ."

"The greatest success . . ." "Quite the most

»>

Laura helped her mother with the good-byes.
They stood side by side in the porch till it was all
over.

"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs.
Sheridan. "Round up the others, Laura. Let's
go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted.
Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these
parties, these parties ! Why will you children in-
sist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat
down in the deserted marquee.

"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote thr
flag."

"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the
sandwich was gone. He took another. "I sup-
pose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that hap-
pened to-day?" he said.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her

THE GARDEN-PARTY

hand, "we did. It nearly ruined the party.
Laura insisted we should put it off."

"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased
about it.

"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr.
Sheridan. "The chap was married too. Lived
just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a
dozen kiddies, so they say."

An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan
fidgeted with her cupT Really, it was very tactless
of father . . .

Suddenly she looked up. There on the table
were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all uneaten,
all going to be wasted. She had one of her bril-
liant ideas.

"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket.
Let's send that poor creature some of this perfectly
good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest
treat for the children. Don't you agree? And
she's sure to have neighbours calling in and so on.
What a point to have it all ready prepared.
Laura !" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket
out of the stairs cupboard."

"But, mother, do you really think it's a good
idea?" said Laura. — —j

Again, how curious, she seemed to be different

'"^ *°" ^ ••••— •"" — •• "*" •••••"••«»«™^— — — ••••••

from them all. To take scraps from their party. I
Would the poor woman really like that?

"Of course! What's the matter with you to-

THE GARDEN-PARTY

day? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us
being sympathetic, and now "

Oh, well! Laura ran for the basket. It was
filled, it was heaped by her mother.

"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run
down just as you are. No, wait, take the arum
lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by
arum lilies."

"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said grao;
tica^ Jose.

So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket,
then. And, Laura !" — her mother followed her
out of the marquee — "don't on any account "

"What, mother?"

No, better not put such ideas into the child's
head! "Nothing! Run along."

[t was just growing dusky as Laura shut their
garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow.
The road gleamed white, and down below in the
hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How
Pquiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was
f going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay
vdead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't
she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her
that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the
smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her.
She had no room for anything else. How strange !
She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought
was, "Yes, it was the most successful party."

Now the broad road was crossed. The lane be-

THE GARDEN-PARTY

gan, smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's
tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the pal-
ings; the children played in the doorways. A low
hum came from the mean little cottages. In some
of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow,
crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent
her head and hurried on. She wished now she had
put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the
big hat with the velvet streamer — if only it was an-
other hat! Were the people looking at her? They
must be. It was a mistake to have come; she knew
all along it was a mistake. Should she go back
even now?

No, too late. This was the house. It must be.
A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the'
gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair,
watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The
voices stopped as Laura drew near. The group
parted. It was as though she was expected, as
though they had known she was coming here.

Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet
ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman stand-
ing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the
woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."

Oh, to be away from this! She actually said,
"Help me, God," as she walked up the tiny path and
knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or to
be covered up in anything, one of those women's
shawls even. I'll just leave the basket and go, she
decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied.

THE GARDEN-PARTY

Then the door opened. A little woman in black
/ showed in the. gloom.

Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her
horror the woman answered, "Walk in please,
miss," and she was shut in the passage.

"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I
only want to leave this basket. Mother sent "

The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed
not to have heard her. "Step this way, please,
miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed
her.

She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen,
lighted by a smoky lamp. There was a woman sit-
ting before the fire.

"Em," said the little creature who had let her in.
"Em! It's a young lady." She turned to Laura.
She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, Miss. You'll
excuse 'er, won't you?"

"Oh, but of course !" said Laura. "Please, please
don't disturb her. I — I only want to leave "

But at that moment the woman at the fire turned
round. Her face, puffed up, red, with swollen eyes
and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as
though she couldn't understand why Laura was
there. What did it mean? Why was this stranger
standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was
it all about? And the poor face puckered up again.

"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk
the young lady."

And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss,
80

THE GARDEN-PARTY

I'm sure," and her face, swollen too, tried an oily
smile.

Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She
was back in the passage. The door opened. She
walked straight through into the bedroom, where
the dead man was lying. .,

"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said
Em's sister, and she brushed past Laura over to the
bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass, — " and now her
voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew
down the sheet — " 'e looks a picture. There's
nothing to show. Come along, my dear."

Laura came.

There lay a young man, fast asleep — sleeping so
soundly, so deeply, that he was far, far away from
them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was
dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head
was sunk in the pillow, his eyes were closed; they
were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given
up to his dream. What did garden-parties and bas-
kets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far
from all those things. He was wonderful, beauti-
ful. While they were laughing and while the band
was playing, this marvel had come to the lane.
Happy . . . happy. ... All is well, said that
sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am
content.

But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't
go out of the room without saying something to him.
Laura gave a loud childish sob.

THE GARDEN-PARTY

"Forgive my hat," she said.

And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister.
She found her way out of the door, down the path,
past all those dark people. At the corner of the
lane she met Laurie.

He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you,
Laura?"

"Yes."

"Mother was getting anxious. Was it aL
right?"

"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm,
she pressed up against him.

"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her
brother.

Laura shook her head. She was.

Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't
cry," he said in his warm, loving voice. "Was it
awful?"

"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvel-
lous. But, Laurie " She stopped, she looked

at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't

life " But what life was she couldn't explain.

No matter. He quite understood.

"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE

COLONEL

THE week after was one of the busiest weeks
of their lives. Even when they went to
bed it was only their bodies that lay down
and rested; their minds went on, thinking things
out, talking things over, wondering, deciding, try-
ing to remember where . . .

Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her
sides, her feet just overlapping each other, the sheet
up to her chin. She stared at the ceiling.

"Do you think father would mind if we gave his
top-hat to the porter?"

"The porter?" snapped Josephine.- "Why ever
the porter? What a very extraordinary idea!"

"Because," said Constantia slowly, "he must often
have to go to funerals. And I noticed at — at the
cemetery that he only had a bowler." She paused.
"I thought then how very much he'd appreciate a
top-hat. We ought to give him a present, too.
He was always very nice to father."

"But," cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow
and staring across the dark at Constantia, "father's
head!" And suddenly, for one awful moment, she
nearly giggled. Not, of course, that she felt in the

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

least like giggling. It must have been habit.
Years ago, when they had stayed awake at night
talking, their beds had simply heaved. And
now the porter's head, disappearing, popped out,
like a candle, under father's hat. . . . The giggle
mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she
fought it down; she frowned fiercely at the dark and
said "Remember" terribly sternly.

"We can decide to-morrow," she sighed.

Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed.

"Do you think we ought to have our dressing-
gowns dyed as well?"

"Black?" almost shrieked Josephine.

"Well, what else?" said Constantia. "I was
thinking — it doesn't seem quite sincere, in a way,
to wear black out of doors and when we're fully
dressed, and then when we're at home "

"But nobody sees us," said Josephine. She gave
the bedclothes such a twitch that both her feet be-
came uncovered, and she had to creep up the pillows
to get them well under again.

"Kate does," said Constantia. "And the post-
man very well might."

Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which
matched her dressing-gown, and of Constantia's
favourite indefinite green ones which went with hers.
Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs
of black woolly slippers, creeping off to the bath-
room like black cats.

"I don't think it's absolutely necessary," said she.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

Silence. Then Constantia said, "We shall have
to post the papers with the notice in them to-
morrow to catch the Ceylon mail. . . . How many
letters have we had up till now?"

"Twenty-three."

Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-
three times when she came to "We miss our dear
father so much" she had broken down and had to
use her handkerchief, and on some of them even to
soak up a very light-blue tear with an edge of blot-
ting-paper. Strange! She couldn't have put it on
— but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when
she said over to herself sadly. "We miss our dear
father so much" she could have cried if she'd wanted
to.

"Have you got enough stamps?" came from Con-
stantia.

"Oh, how can I tell?" said Josephine crossly.
"What's the good of asking me that now?"

"I was just wondering," said Constantia mildly.

Silence again. There came a little rustle, a
scurry, a hop.

"A mouse," said Constantia.

"It can't be a mouse because there aren't any
crumbs," said Josephine.

"But it doesn't know there aren't," said
Constantia.

A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little
thing! She wished she'd left a tiny piece of bis-
cuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to think

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

of it not finding anything. What would it do?

"I can't think how they manage to live at all,"
she said slowly.

"Who?" demanded Josephine.

And Constantia said more loudly than she meant
to, "Mice."

Josephine was furious. "Oh, what nonsense,
Con!" she said. "What have mice got to do with
it? You're asleep."

"I don't think I am," said Constantia. She shut
her eyes to make sure. She was.

Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees,
folded her arms so that her fists came under her
ears, and pressed her cheek hard against the pillow.

Another thing which complicated matters was
they had Nurse Andrews staying on with them that
week. It was their own fault; they had asked her.
It was Josephine's idea. On the morning — well,
on the last morning, when the doctor had gone,
Josephine had said to Constantia, "Don't you think
it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews
to stay on for a week as our guest?"

"Very nice," said Constantia^

"I thought," went on Josephine quickly, "I should
just say this afternoon, after I've paid her, 'My
sister and I would be very pleased, after all you've
done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

for a week as our guest.' I'd have to put that in
about being our guest in case "

"Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paidl"
cried Constantia.

"One never knows," said Josephine sagely.

Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the
idea. But it was a bother. It meant they had to
have regular sit-down meals at the proper times,
whereas if they'd been alone they could just have
asked Kate if she wouldn't have minded bringing
them a tray wherever they were. And meal-times
now that the strain was over were rather a trial.

Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter.
Really they couldn't help feeling that about butter,
at least, she took advantage of their kindness.
And she had that maddening habit of asking for
just an inch more bread to finish what she had on
her plate, and then, at the last mouthful, absent-
mindedly — of course it wasn't absent-mindedly —
taking another helping. Josephine got very red
when this happened, and she fastened her small,
bead-like eyes on the tablecloth as if she saw a mi-
nute strange insect creeping through the web of it.
But Constantia's long, pale face lengthened and
set, and she gazed away — away — far over the des-
ert, to where that line of camels unwound like a
thread of wool. . . .

"When I was with Lady Tukes," said Nurse
Andrews, "she had such a dainty little contrayvance
for the buttah.* It was a silvah Cupid balanced on

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

the — on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny
fork. And when you wanted some buttah you
simply pressed his foot and he bent down and
speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme."

Josephine could hardly bear that. But "I think
those things are very extravagant" was all she
said.

"But whey?" asked Nurse Andrews, beaming
through her eyeglasses. "No one, surely, would
take more buttah than one wanted — would one?"

"Ring, Con," cried Josephine. She couldn't
trust herself to reply.

And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess,
came in to see what the old tabbies wanted now.
She snatched away their plates of mock something
or other and slapped down a white, terrified blanc-
mange.

"Jam, please, Kate," said Josephine kindly.

Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted
the lid of the jam-pot, saw it was empty, put it on
the table, and stalked off.

"I'm afraid," said Nurse Andrews a moment
later, "there isn't any."

"Oh, what a bother!" said Josephine. She bit
her lip. "What had we better do?"

Constantia looked dubious. "We can't disturb
Kate again," she said softly.

Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both.
Her eyes wandered, spying at everything behind her
eye-glasses. Constantia in despair went back to

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

her camels. Josephine frowned heavily — concen-
trated. If it hadn't been for this idiotic woman
she and Con would, of course, have eaten their
blancamange without. Suddenly the idea came.

"I know," she said. "Marmalade. There's
some marmalade in the sideboard. Get it, Con."

"I hope," laughed Nurse Andrews, and her laugh
was like a spoon tinkling against a medicine-glass —
"I hope it's not very bittah marmalayde."

Ill

But, after all, it was not long now, and then
she'd be gone for good. And there was no getting
over the fact that she had been very kind to
father. She had nursed him day and night at the
end. Indeed, both Constantia and Josephine felt
privately she had rather overdone the not leav-
ing him at the very last. For when they had gone
in to say good-bye Nurse Andrews had sat beside
his bed the whole time, holding his wrist and pre-
tending to look at her watch. It couldn't have been
necessary. It was so tactless, too. Supposing
father had wanted to say something — something
private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from
it! He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in
the face, and never even looked at them when they
came in. Then, as they were standing there, won-
dering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye.
Oh, what a difference it would have made, what a

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

difference to their memory of him, how much
easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened
both! But no — one eye only. It glared at them
a moment and then . . . went out.

It had made it very awkward for them when
Mr. Farolles, of St. John's, called the same after-
noon.

"The end was quite peaceful, I trust?" were the
first words he said as he glided towards them
through the dark drawing-room.

"Quite," said Josephine faintly. They both
hung their heads. Both of them felt certain that
eye wasn't at all a peaceful eye.

"Won't you sit down?" said Josephine.

"Thank you, Miss Pinner," said Mr. Farolles
gratefully. He folded his coat-tails and began to
lower himself into father's arm-chair, but just as
he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the
next chair instead.

He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands;
Constantia looked vague.

"I want you to feel, Miss Pinner," said Mr.
Farolles, "and you, Miss Constantia, that I'm try-
ing to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you both,
if you will let me. These are the times," said Mr.
Farolles, very simply and earnestly, "when God
means us to be helpful to one another."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles," said
Josephine and Constantia.

"Not at all," said Mr. Farolles gently. He
drew his kid gloves through his fingers and leaned
forward. "And if either of you would like a little
Communion, either or both of you, here and now,
you have only to tell me. A little Communion is
often very help — a great comfort," he added ten-
derly.

But the idea of a little Communion terrified them.
Whatl In the drawing-room by themselves —
with no — no altar or anything! The piano would
be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr.
Farolles could not possibly lean over it with the
chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting
in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And
supposing the bell rang in the middle? It might
be somebody important — about their mourning.
Would they get up reverently and go out, or would
they have to wait ... in torture?

"Perhaps you will send round a note by your good
Kate if you would care for it later," said Mr.
Farolles.

"Oh yes, thank you very much !" they both said.

Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw
hat from the round table.

"And about the funeral," he said softly. "I may
arrange that — as your dear father's old friend and
yours, Miss Pinner — and Miss Constantia?"

Josephine and Constantia got up too.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

"I should like it to be quite simple," said
Josephine firmly, "and not too expensive. At the
same time, I should like "

"A good one that will last," thought dreamy
Constantia, as if Josephine were buying a night-
gown. But of course Josephine didn't say that.
"One suitable to our father's sposition." She was
very nervous.

"I'll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight,"
said Mr. Farolles soothingly. "I will ask him to
come and see you. I am sure you will find him
very helpful indeed."

Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over,
though neither of them could possibly believe that
father was never coming back. Josephine had had
a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while
the coffin was lowered, to think that she and Con-
stantia had done this thing without asking his per-
mission. What would father say when he founc?
out? For he was bound to find out sooner or
later. He always did. "Buried. You two girls
had me buried!" She heard his stick thumping.
Oh, what would they say? What possible excuse
could they make? It sounded such an appallingly
heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to
take of a person because he happened to be help-
less at the moment. The other people seemed to

treat it all as a matter of course. They were
strangers; they couldn't be expected to under-
stand that father was the very last person for such
a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame for it
all would fall on her and Constantia. And the ex-
pense, she thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned
cab. When she had to show him the bills. What
would he say then?

She heard him absolutely roaring, "And do you
expect me to pay for this gimcrack excursion of
yours?"

"Oh," groaned poor Josephine aloud, "we
shouldn't have done it, Con!"

And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that black-
ness, said in a frightened whisper, "Done what,
Jug?"

"Let them bu-bury father like that," said
Josephine, breaking down and crying into her new,
queer-smelling mourning handkerchief.

"But what else could we have done?" asked
Constantia wonderingly. "We couldn't have kept
him, Jug — we couldn't have kept him unburied.
At any rate, not in a flat that size."

Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully
stuffy.

"I don't know," she said forlornly. "It is all so
dreadful. I feel we ought to have tried to, just for
a time at least. To make perfectly sure. One
thing's certain" — and her tears sprang out again —
"father will never forgive us for this — never!"

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

Father would never forgive them. That was
what they felt more than ever when, two morn-
ings later, they went into his room to go through
his things. They had discussed it quite calmly.
It was even down on Josephine's list of things to
be done. Go through father's things and settle
about them. But that was a very different matter
from saying after breakfast:

"Well, are you ready, Con?"

"Yes, Jug — when you are."

"Then I think we'd better get it over."

It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for
years never to disturb father in the morning, what-
ever happened. And now they were going to open
the door without knocking even. . . . Con-
stantia's eyes were enormous at the idea; Josephine
felt weak in the knees.

"You — you go first," she gasped, pushing Con-
stantia.

But Constantia said, as she always had said on
those occasions, "No, Jug, that's not fair. You're
eldest."

Josephine was just going to say — what at other
times she wouldn't have owned to for the world —
what she kept for her very last weapon, "But you're
tallest," when they noticed that the kitchen door was
open, and there stood Kate. . . .

"Very stiff," said Josephine, grasping the door-

handle and doing her best to turn it. As if any-
thing ever deceived Kate I

It couldn't be helped. That girl was . . .
Then the door was shut behind them, but — but they
weren't in father's room at all. They might have
suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into
a different flat altogether. Was the door just be-
hind them? They were too frightened to look.
Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself
tight shut; Constantia felt that, like the doors in
dreams, it hadn't any handle at all. It was the
coldness which made it so awful. Or the whiteness
— which? Everything was covered. The blinds
were down, a cloth hung over the mirror, a sheet
hid the bed; a huge fan of white paper filled the fire-
place. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she al-
most expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt
a queer tingling in her nose, as if her nose was freez-
ing. Then a cab klop-klopped over the cobbles be-
low, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces.

"I had better pull up a blind," said Josephine
bravely.

"Yes, it might be a good idea," whispered Con-
stantia.

They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up
and the cord flew after, rolling round the blind-
stick, and the little tassel tapped as if trying to get
free. That was too much for Constantia.

"Don't you think — don't you think we might put
it off for another day?" she whispered.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

"Why?" snapped Josephine, feeling, as usual,
much better now that she knew for certain that Con-
stantia was terrified. "It's got to be done. But
I do wish you wouldn't whisper, Con."

"I didn't know I was whispering," whispered
Constantia.

"And why do you keep on staring at the bed?"
said Josephine, raising her voice almost defiantly.
"There's nothing on the bed."

"Oh, Jug, don't say so!" said poor Connie.
"At any rate, not so loudly."

Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far.
She took a wide swerve over to the chest of drawers,
put out her hand, but quickly drew it back again.

"Connie!" she gasped, and she wheeled round
and leaned with her back against the chest of
drawers.

"Oh, Jug— what?"

Josephine could only glare. She had the most
extraordinary feeling that she had just escaped
something simply awful.. But how could she ex-
plain to Constantia that father was in the chest of
drawers? He was in the top drawer with his hand-
kerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with his shirts
and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits.
He was watching there, hidden away — just behind
the door-handle — ready to spring.

She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Con-
stantia, just as she used to in the old days when she
was going to cry.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

"I can't open," she nearly wailed.

"No, don't, Jug," whispered Constantia ear-
nestly. "It's much better not to. Don't let's
open anything. At any rate, not for a long
time."

"But — but it seems so weak," said Josephine,
breaking down.

"But why not be weak for once, Jud?" argued
Constantia, whispering quite fiercely. "If it is
weak." And her pale stare flew from the locked
writing-table — so safe — to the huge glittering ward-
robe, and she began to breathe in a queer, panting
way. "Why shouldn't we be weak for once in our
lives, Jug? It's quite excusable., Let's be weak —
be weak, Jug. It's much nicer to be weak than to
be strong."

And then she did one of those amazingly bold
things that she'd done about twice before in their
lives; she marched over to the wardrobe, turned the
key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the
lock and held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine
by her extraordinary smile that she knew what she'd
done, she'd risked deliberately father being in there
among his overcoats.

If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had
crashed down on Constantia, Josephine wouldn't
have been surprised. On the contrary, she would
have thought it the only suitable thing to happen.
But nothing happened. Only the room seemed
quieter than ever, and bigger flakes of cold air fell

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

on Josephine's shoulders and knees. She began to
shiver.

"Come, Jug," said Constantia, still with that aw-
ful callous smile, and Josephine followed just as
she had that last time, when Constantia had pushed
Benny into the round pond.

But the strain told on them when they were back
in the dining-room. They sat down, very shaky,
and looked at each other.

"I don't feel I can settle to anything," said Jo-
sephine, "until I've had something. Do you think
we could ask Kate for two cups of hot water?"

"I really don't see why we shouldn't," said Con-
stantia carefully. She was 'quite normal again.
"I won't ring. I'll go to the kitchen door and ask
her."

"Yes, do," said Josephine, sinking down into a
chair. "Tell her, just two cups, Con, nothing else
— on a tray."

"She needn't even put the jug on, need she?"
said Constantia, as though Kate might very well
complain if the jug had been there.

"Oh no, certainly not! The jug's not at all nec-
essary. She can pour it direct out of the kettle,"
cried Josephine, feeling that would be a labour-sav-
ing indeed.

Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims.
Josephine curved her small red hands round the

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

cup ; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy stream,
making it flutter from one side to the other.

"Speaking of Benny," said Josephine.

And though Benny hadn't been mentioned Con-
stantia immediately looked as though he had.

"He'll expect us to send him something of
father's, of course. But it's so difficult to know
what to send to Ceylon."

"You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,"
murmured Constantia.

"No, lost," said Josephine sharply. "You know
there's no post. Only runners."

Both paused to watch a black man in white linen
drawers running through the pale fields for dear
life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hands.
Josephine's black man was tiny; he scurried along
glistening like an ant. But there was something
blind and tireless about Constantia's tall, thin fel-
low, which made him, she decided, a very unpleas-
ant person indeed. . . . On the veranda, dressed
all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny.
His right hand shook up and down, as father's did
when he was impatient. And behind him, not in
the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-
in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked
over the leaves of the Taller.

"I think his watch would be the most suitable
present," said Josephine.

Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised.

"Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?"

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

"But of course I'd disguise it," said Josephine.
"No one would know it was a watch." She liked
the idea of having to make a parcel such a cu-
rious shape that no one could possibly guess what
it was. She even thought for a moment of hiding
the watch in a narrow cardboard corset-box that
she'd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to
come in for something. It was such beautiful firm
cardboard. But, no, it wouldn't be appropriate for
this occasion. It had lettering on it: Medium
Women's 28. Extra Firm Busks. It would be
almost too much of a surprise for Benny to open
that and find father's watch inside.

"And of course it isn't as though it would be
going — ticking, I mean," said Constantia, who was
still thinking of the native love of jewellery. "At
least," she added, " it would be very strange if after
all that time it was."

v VIII

Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on
one of her tangents. She had suddenly thought of
'Cyril. Wasn't it more usual for the only grand-
son to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was
so appreciative, and a gold watch meant so much to
a young man. Benny, in all probability, had quite
got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom
wore waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas
Cyril in London wore them from year's end to

TOO

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

year's end. And it would be so nice for her and
Constantia, when he came to tea, to know it was
there. "I see you've got on grandfather's watch,
Cyril." It would be somehow so satisfactory.

Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic
little note had been! Of course they quite under-
stood; but it was most unfortunate.

"It would have been such a point, having him,"
said Josephine.

"And he would have enjoyed it so," said Constan-
tia, not thinking what she was saying.

However, as soon as he got back he was coming
to tea with his aunties. Cyril to tea was one of
their rare treats.

"Now, Cyril, you mustn't be frightened of our
cakes. Your Auntie Con and I bought them at
Buszard's this morning. We know what a man's
appetite is. So don't be ashamed of making a good
tea."

Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake
that stood for her winter gloves or the soling and
heeling of Constantia's only respectable shoes.
But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite.

"I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can't. I've only
just had lunch, you know."

"Oh, Cyril, that can't be true! It's after four,"
cried Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife
poised over the chocolate-roll. '

"It is, all the same," said Cyril. "I had to meet
a man at Victoria, and he kept me hanging about

101

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

till . ., . there was only time to get lunch and to
come on here. And he gave me — phew" — Cyril
put his hand to his forehead — "a terrific blow-out,"
he said.

It was disappointing — to-day of all days. But
still he couldn't be expected to know.

"But you'll have a meringue, won't you, Cyril?"
said Aunt Josephine. "These meringues were
bought specially for you. Your dear father was
so fond of them. We were sure you are, too."

"I am, Aunt Josephine," cried Cyril ardently.
"Do you mind if I take half to begin with?"

"Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn't let you off
with that."

"Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?"
asked Auntie Con gently. She winced faintly as
she broke through the shell of hers.

"Well, I don't quite know, Auntie Con," said
Cyril breezily.

At that they both looked up.

"Don't know?" almost snapped Josephine.
"Don't know a thing like that about your own
father, Cyril?"

"Surely," said Aunty Con softly.

Cyril tried to laugh it off. "Oh, well," he said,

"it's such a long time since " He faltered.

He stopped. Their faces were too much for
him.

"Even so" said Josephine.

And Auntie Con looked.
102

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

Cyril put down his teacup. "Wait a bit," he
cried. "Wait a bit, Aunt Josephine. What am
I thinking of?"

He looked up. They were beginning to brighten.
Cyril slapped his knee.

"Of course," he said, "it was meringues. How
could I have forgotten? Yes, Aunt Josephine,
you're perfectly right. Father's most frightfully
keen on meringues."

They didn't only beam. Aunt Josephine went
scarlet with pleasure ; Auntie Con gave a deep, deep
sigh.

"And now, Cyril, you must come and see father,"
said Josephine. "He knows you were coming to-
day."

"Right," said Cyril, very firmly and heartily.
He got up from his chair; suddenly he glanced at
the clock.

"I say, Auntie Con, isn't your clock a bit slow?
I've got to meet a man at — at Paddington just
after five. I'm afraid I shan't be able to stay very
long with grandfather."

"Oh, he won't expect you to stay very long!"
said Aunt Josephine.

Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She
couldn't make up her mind if it was fast or slow.
It was one or the other, she felt almost certain of
that. At any rate, it had been.

Cyril still lingered. "Aren't you coming along,
Auntie Con?"

103

"Of course," said Josephine, "we shall all go.
Come on, Con."

They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his
aunts into grandfather's hot, sweetish room.

"Come on," said Grandfather Pinner. "Don't
hang about. What is it? What've you been up
to?"

He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping
his stick. He had a thick rug over his knees. On
his lap there lay a beautiful pale yellow silk hand-
kerchief.

"It's Cyril, father," said Josephine shyly. And
she took Cyril's hand and led him forward.

"Good afternoon, grandfather," said Cyril, try-
ing to take his hand out of Aunt Josephine's.
Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril in the
way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Coni?
She stood on the other side of Aunt Josephine; her
long arms hung down in front of her; her hands
were clasped. She never took her eyes off grand-
father.

"Well," said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to
thump, "what have you got to tell me?"

What had he, what had he got to tell him?
Cyril felt himself smiling like a perfect imbecile.
The room was stifling, too.

But Aunt Josephine came to his *escue. She
104

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

cried brightly, "Cyril says his father is still very
fond of meringues, father dear."

"Eh?" said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand
like a purple meringue-shell over one ear.

Josephine repeated, "Cyril says his father is still
very fond of meringues."

"Can't hear," said old Colonel Pinner. And he
waved Josephine away with his stick, then pointed
with his stick to Cyril. "Tell me what she's trying
to say," he said.

(My God!) "Must I?" said Cyril, blushing and
staring at Aunt Josephine.

"Do, dear," she smiled. "It will please him so
much."

"Come on, out with it!" cried Colonel Pinner
testily, beginning to thump again.

And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, "Father's
still very fond of meringues."

At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though
he had been shot.

"Don't shout!" he cried. "What's the matter
with the boy? Meringues!. What about 'em?"

"Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?" groaned
Cyril desperately.

"It's quite all right, dear boy," said Aunt Jose-
phine, as though he and she were at the dentist's
together. "He'll understand in a minute." And
she whispered to Cyril, "He's getting a bit deaf, you
know." Then she leaned forward and really
bawled at Grandfather Pinner, "Cyril only wanted

105

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

to tell you, father dear, that his father is still very
fond of meringues."

Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and
brooded, looking Cyril up and down.

"What an esstrordinary thing!" said old Grand-
father Pinner. "What an esstrordinary thing to
come all this way here to tell me !"

And Cyril felt it was.

"Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch," said Jose-
phine.

"That would be very nice," said Constantia. "I
seem to remember last time he came there was some
little trouble about the time."

They were interrupted by Kate bursting through
the door in her usual fashion, as though she had
discovered some secret panel in the wall.

"Fried or boiled?" asked the bold voice.

Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia
were quite bewildered for the moment. They could
hardly take it in.

"Fried or boiled what, Kate?" asked Josephine,
trying to begin to concentrate.

Kate gave a loud sniff. "Fish."

"Well, why didn't you say so immediately?"
Josephine reproached her gently. "How could
you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a
great many things in this world, you know, which

1 06

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

are fried or boiled." And after such a display of
courage she said quite brightly to Constantia,
"Which do you prefer, Con?"

"I think it might be nice to have it fried," said
Constantia. "On the other hand, of course boiled
fisjh is very nice. I think I prefer both equally weli
. . . Unless you ... In that case "

"I shall fry it," said Kate, and she bounced backv
leaving their door open and slamming the door of
her kitchen.

Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her
pale eyebrows until they rippled away into her pale
hair. She got up. She said in a very lofty, im-
posing way, "Do you mind following me into the
drawing-room, Constantia? I've something of
great importance to discuss with you."

For it was always to the drawing-room they?
retired when they wanted to talk over Kate.

Josephine closed the door meaningly. "Sit down,
Constantia," she said, still very grand. She might
have been receiving Constantia for the first time.
And Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as
though she felt indeed quite a stranger.

"Now the question is," said Josephine, bending
forward, "whether we shall keep her or not."

"That is the question," agreed Constantia.

"And this time," said Josephine firmly, "we must
come to a definite decision."

Constantia looked for a moment as though she
might begin going over all the other times, but

107

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

she pulled herself together and said, "Yes, Jug."

"You see, Con," explained Josephine, "everything
is so changed now." Constantia looked up quickly.
"I mean," went on Josephine, "we're not depend-
ent on Kate as we were." And she blushed faintly.
"There's not father to cook for."

"That is perfectly true," agreed Constantia.
"Father certainly doesn't want any cooking now,
whatever else "

Josephine broke in sharply, "You're not sleepy,
are you, Con?"

"Sleepy, Jug?" Constantia was wide-eyed.

"Well, concentrate more," said Josephine sharply,
and she returned to the subject. "What it comes
to is, if we did" — and this she barely breathed,
glancing at the door — "give Kate notice" — she
raised her voice again — "we could manage our own
food."

"Why not?" cried Constantia. She couldn't
help smiling. The idea was so exciting. She
clasped her hands. What should we live on,
Jug?"

"Oh, eggs in various forms!" said Jug, lofty
again. "And, besides, there are all the cooked
foods."

"But I've always heard," said Constantia, "they
are considered so very expensive."

"Not if one buys them in moderation," said Jo-
sephine. But she tore herself away from this fas-
cinating bypath and dragged Constantia after her.

108

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

"What we've got to decide now, however, is
whether we really do trust Kate or not."

Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh
flew from her lips.

"Isn't it curious, Jug," said she, "that just on this
one subject I've never been able to quite make up
my mind?"

She never had. The whole difficulty was to
prove anything. How did one prove things, how
could one ? Suppose Kate had stood in front of her
and deliberately made a face. Mightn't she very
well have been in pain? Wasn't it impossible, at
any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a face at
her? If Kate answered "No" — and of course she
would say "No" — what a position! How undig-
nified! Then again Constantia suspected, she was
almost certain that Kate went to her chest of
drawers when she and Josephine were out, not to
take things but to spy. Many times she had come
back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely
places, under her lace ties or on top of her evening
Bertha. More than once she had laid a trap for
Kate. She had arranged things in a special order
and then called Josephine to witness.

"You see, Jug?"

"Quite, Con."

"Now we shall be able to tell."
109

But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was
as far off from a proof as ever! If anything was
displaced, it might so very well have happened as she
closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so
easily.

"You come, Jug, and decide. I really can't. It's
too difficult."

But after a pause and a long glare Josephine
would sigh, "Now you've put the doubt into my
mind, Con, I'm sure I can't tell myself."

"Well, we can't postpone it again," said Jose-
sephine. "If we postpone it this time "

But at that moment in the street below a barrel-
organ struck up. Josephine and Constantia sprang
to their feet together.

"Run, Con," said Josephine. "Run quickly.
There's sixpence on the "

Then they remembered. It didn't matter. They
would never have to stop the organ-grinder
again. Never again would she and Constantia
be told to make that monkey take his noise
somewhere else. Never would sound that loud,
strange bellow when father thought they were
not hurrying enough. The organ-grinder might
01ay there all day and the stick would not
thump.

IIO

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

// never will thump again,
It never will thump again,

played the barrel-organ.

What was Constantia thinking? She had such a
strange smile; she looked different. She couldn't be
going to cry.

"Jug, Jug," said Constantia softly, pressing her
hands together. "Do you know what day it is? It's
Saturday. It's a week to-day, a whole week."

A week since father died,
A week since father died,

cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too, forgot
to be practical and sensible; she smiled faintly,
strangely. On the Indian carpet there fell a square
of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and came —
and stayed, deepened — until it shone almost golden.

"The sun's out," said Josephine, as though it
really mattered.

A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook
from the barrel-organ, round, bright notes, care-
lessly scattered.

Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to
catch them, and then her hands fell again. She
walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite
Buddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile
always gave her such a queer feeling, almost a pain
and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day to be more
than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret.
"I know something that you don't know," said her

III

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

Buddha. Oh, what was it, what could it be? And
yet she had always felt there was . . . something.

The sunlight pressed through the windows,
thieved its way in, flashed its light over the furni-
ture and the photographs. Josephine watched it.
When it came to mother's photograph, the enlarge-
ment over the piano, it lingered as though puzzled
to find so little remained of mother, except the ear-
rings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather
boa. Why did the photographs of dead people
always fade so? wondered Josephine. As soon as
a person was dead their photograph died too. But,
of course, this one of mother was very old. It wai
thirty-five years old. Josephine remembered stand-
ing on a chair and pointing out that feather boa to
Constantia and telling her that it was a snake that
had killed their mother in Ceylon. . . . Would
everything have been different if mother hadn't
died? She didn't see why. Aunt Florence had
lived with them until they had left school, and they
had moved three times and had their yearly holi-
day and . . . and there'd been changes of serv-
ants, of course.

Some little sparrows, young sparrows they
sounded, chirped on the window-ledge. Yeep
' — eyeep — yeep. But Josephine felt they were not
sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside
her, that queer little crying noise. Yeep — eyeep —
yeep. Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn ?

If mother had lived, might they have married?

112

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

But there had been nobody for them to marry
There had been father's Anglo-Indian friends be*
fore he quarrelled with them. But after that she
and Constantia never met a single man except clergy-
men. How did one meet men? Or even if they'd
met them, how could they have got to know men
well enough to be more than strangers? One read
of people having adventures, being followed, and
so on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia
and her. Oh yes, there had been one year at East-
bourne a mysterious man at their boarding-house
who had put a note on the jug of hot water outside
their bedroom door! But by the time Connie had
found it the steam had made the writing too faint
to read; they couldn't even make out to which of
them it was addressed. And he had left next day.
And that was all. The rest had been looking after
father, and at the same time keeping out of father's
way. But now? But now? The thieving sun
touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face.
She was drawn over to the window by gentle
beams. . . .

Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constan-
tia stayed before the Buddha, wondering, but not
as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder was
like longing. She remembered the times she had
come in here, crept out of bed in her nightgown when
the moon was full, and lain on the floor with her
arms outstretched, as though she was crucified.
Why? The big, pale moon had made her do it. The

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

horrible dancing figures on the carved screen had
leered at her and she hadn't minded. She remem-
bered too how, whenever they were at the seaside,
she had gone off by herself and got as close to the sea
as she could, and sung something, something she
had made up, while she gazed all over that restless
water. There had been this other life, running out,
bringing things home in bags, getting things on
approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them
back to get more things on approval, and arranging
father's trays and trying not to annoy father. But
it all seemed to have happened in a kind of tunnel.
It wasn't real. It was only when she came out of
the tunnel into the moonlight or by the sea or into
a thunderstorm that «he really felt herself. What
did it mean? What was it she was always want-
ing? What did it all lead to? Now? Now?

She turned away from the Buddha with one of her
vague gestures. She went over to where Josephine
was standing. She wanted to say something to
Josephine, something frightfully important, about
— about the future and what . . .

"Don't you think perhaps " she began.

But Josephine interrupted her. "I was wonder-
ing if now " she murmured. They stopped;

they waited for each other.

uGo on, Con," said Josephine.

"No, no, Jug; after you," said Constantia.

"No, say what you -were going to say. You
began," said Josephine.

114

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL

"I ... I'd rather hear what you were going to
say first," said Constantia.

"Don't be absurd, Con."

"Really, Jug."

"Connie!"

"Oh, Jug!"

A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, "I can't
say what I was going to say, Jug, because I've for-
gotten what it was . . . that I was going to say."

Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared
at a big cloud where the sun had been. Then she
replied shortly, "I've forgotten too."

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

OF course he knew — no man better — that he
hadn't a ghost of a chance, he hadn't an
earthly. The very idea of such a thing
was preposterous. So preposterous that he'd per-
fectly understand it if her father — well, whatever
her father chose to do he'd perfectly understand.
In fact, nothing short of desperation, nothing short
of the fact that this was positively his last day in1
England for God knows how long, would have
screwed him up to it. And even now . . . He
chose a tie out of the chest of drawers, a blue and
cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed.
Supposing she replied, "What impertinence !" would
he be surprised? Not in the least, he decided,
turning up his soft collar and turning it down over
the tie. He expected her to say something like
that. He didn't see, if he looked at the affair dead
soberly, what else she could say.

Here he was ! And nervously he tied a bow in
front of the mirror, jammed his hair down with both
hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacket pockets.
Making between £500 and £600 a year on a fruit
farm in — of all places — Rhodesia. No capital.
Not a penny coming to him. No chance of his in-
come increasing for at least four years. As for

116

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

looks and all that sort of thing, he was completely
out of the running. He couldn't even boast of top-
hole health, for the East Africa business had
knocked him out so thoroughly that he'd had to take
six months' leave. He was still fearfully pale —
worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought,
bending forward and peering into the mirror.
Good heavens! What had happened? His hair
looked almost bright green. Dash it all, he hadn't
green hair at all events. That was a bit too steep,
And then the green light trembled in the glass;
it was the shadow from the tree outside. Reggie
turned away, took out his cigarette case, but remem-
bering how the mater hated him to smoke in his bed-
room, put it back again and drifted over to the chest
of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think
of one blessed thing in his favour, while she . . .
Ah! ... He stopped dead, folded his arms, and
leaned hard against the chest of drawers.

And in spite of her position, her father's wealth,
the fact that she was an only child and far and away
the most popular girl in the neighbourhood; in spite
of her beautv and her cleverness — cleverness! — it
was a great deal more than that, there was really
nothing she couldn't do; he fully believed, had it
been necessary, she would have been a genius at any-
thing— in spite of the fact that her parents adored
her, and she them, and they'd as soon let her go all
that way as ... In spite of every single thing you
could think of, so terrific was his love that he

117

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

couldn't help hoping. Well, was it hope? Or was
this queer, timid longing to have the chance of look-
ing after her, of making it his job to see that she had
everything she wanted, and that nothing came near
her that wasn't perfect — just love? How he loved
her! He squeezed hard against the chest of
drawers and murmured to it, "I love her, I love
her!" And just for the moment he was with her
on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in
a corner asleep. Her soft chin was tucked into her
soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay on her cheeks.
He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips,
her ear like a baby's, and the gold-brown curl that
half covered it. They were passing through the
jungle. It was warm and dark and far away.
Then she woke up and said, "Have I been asleep?"
and he answered, "Yes. Are you all right? Here,

let me " And he leaned forward to ... He

bent over her. This was such bliss that he could
dream no further. But it gave him the courage to
bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from the
hall, and to say as he closed the front door, "Well,
I can only try my luck, that's all."

But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the
least, almost immediately. Promenading up and
down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, the
ancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald
was fond of the mater and all that. She — she
meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on.
But there was no denying it, she was rather a grim

118

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

parent. And there had been moments, many of
them, in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alick died and
left him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that
to be a widow's only son was about the worst pun-
ishment a chap could have. And what made it
rougher than ever was that she was positively all
that he had. She wasn't only a combined parent, as
it were, but she had quarrelled with all her own and
the governor's relations before Reggie had won his
first trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was
homesick out there, sitting on his dark veranda by
starlight, while the gramophone cried, "Dear, what
is Life but Love?" his only vision was of the mater,
tall and stout, rustling down the garden path, with
Chinny and Biddy at her heels. . . .

The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap
the head of a dead something or other, stopped at
the sight of Reggie.

"You are not going out, Reginald?" she asked,
seeing that he was.

"I'll be back for tea, mater," said Reggie weakly,
plunging his hands into his jacket pockets.

Snip, Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped.

"I should have thought you could have spared
your mother your last afternoon," said she.

Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood
every word of the mater's. Biddy lay down with
her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she
looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chin-
ny's porcelain eyes gloomed at Reginald, and he

119

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

»niffed faintly, as though the whole world were one
unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors agaia
Poor little beggars; they were getting it!

"And where are you going, if your mother may
ask?" asked the mater.

It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down
until he was out of sight of the house and half-way
to Colonel Proctor's. Then only he noticed what
a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining
all the morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy,
quick, and now the sky was clear, except for a long
tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailing over the
forest. There was just enough wind to shake the
last drops off the trees; one warm star splashed on
his hand. Ping!-— another drummed on his hat.
The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of
briar, and how big and bright the hollyhocks glowed
in the cottage gardens. And here was Colonel
Proctor's — here it was already. His hand was on
the gate, his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and
petals and pollen scattered over his coat sleeve.
But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether.
He'd meant to think the whole thing out again.
Here, steady. But he was walking up the path,
with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can't
be done like this. But his hand had grasped the
bell, given it a pull, and started it pealing wildly, as
if he'd come to say the house was on fire. The
housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the
front door flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the

1 2O

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

empty drawing-room before that confounded bell
had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it
did, the big room, shadowy, with some one's parasol
lying on top of the grand piano, bucked him up — or
rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet in one
moment the door would open, and his fate be de-
cided. The feeling was not unlike that of being at
the dentist's; he was almost reckless. But at the
same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard
himself saying, "Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast
not done much for me. . . ." That pulled him up;
that made him realize again how dead serious it
was. Too late. The door handle turned. Anne
came in, crossed the shadowy space between them,
gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice,
"I'm so sorry, father is out. And mother is having
a day in town, hat-hunting. There's only me to en-
tertain you, Reggie."

Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket
buttons, and stammered out, "As a matter of fact,
I've only come ... to say good-bye."

"Oh!" cried Anne softly — she stepped back from
him and her grey eyes danced — "what a very short
visit!"

Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed
outright, a long, soft peal, and walked away from
him over to the piano, and leaned against it, play-
ing with the tassel of the parasol.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "to be laughing like
this. I don't know why I do. It's just a bad ha-

121

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

habit." And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe,
and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white
woolly jacket. "I really must conquer it, it's too
absurd," said she.

"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie, "I love to
hear you laughing! I can't imagine anything
more "

But the truth was, and they both knew it, she
wasn't always laughing; it wasn't really a habit.
Only ever since the day they'd met, ever since that
very first moment, for some strange reason that
Reggie wished to God he understood, Anne had
laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter where
they wer,e or what they were talking about. They
might begin by being as serious as possible, dead
serious — at any rate, as far as he was concerned —
but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne
would glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed
over her face. Her lips parted, her eyes danced,
and she began .laughing.

Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an
idea she didn't herself know why she laughed. He
had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her cheeks,
press her hands together. But it was no use. The
long, soft peal sounded, even while she cried, "I
don't know why I'm laughing." It was a
mystery. . . .

Now she tucked the handkerchief away.

"Do sit down," said she. "And smoke, won't
you? There are cigarettes in that little box beside

122

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

you. I'll have one too." He lighted a match for
her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame
glow in the pearl ring she wore. "It is to-morrow
that you're going, isn't it?" said Anne.

"Yes, to-morrow as ever was," said Reggie, and
he blew a little fan of smoke. Why on earth was he
so nervous? Nervous wasn't the word for it.

"It's — it's frightfully hard to believe," he added.

"Yes — isn't it?" said Anne softly, and she leaned
forward and rolled the point of her cigarette round
the green ash-tray. How beautiful she looked like
that! — simply beautiful — and she was so small in
that immense chair. Reginald's heart swelled with
tenderness, but it was her voice, her soft voice, that
made him tremble. "I feel you've been here for
years," she said.

Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette.
"It's ghastly, this idea of going back," he said.

"Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo," sounded from the quiet.

"But you're fond of being out there, aren't you?"
said Anne. She hooked her finger through her
pearl necklace. "Father was saying only the other
night how lucky he thought you were to have a life
of your own." And she looked up at him. Regi-
nald's smile was rather wan. "I don't feel fearfully
lucky," he said lightly.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo," came again. And Anne mur-
mured, "You mean it's lonely."

"Oh, it isn't the loneliness I care about," said
Reginald, and he stumped his cigarette savagely on

123

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

the green ash-tray. "I could stand any amount of
it, used to like it even. It's the idea of " Sud-
denly, to his horror, he felt himself blushing.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!"

Anne jumped up. "Come and say good-bye to
my doves," she said. "They've been moved to the
side veranda. You do like doves, don't you, Reg-
gie?"

"Awfully," said Reggie, so fervently that as he
opened the French window for her and stood to one
side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the doves
instead.

To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on
the floor of the dove house, walked the two doves.
One was always in front of the other. One ran for-
ward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed,
solemnly bowing and bowing. "You see," ex-
plained Anne, "the one in front, she's Mrs. Dove.
She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh
and runs forward, and he follows her, bowing and
bowing. And that makes her laugh again. Away
she runs, and after her," cried Anne, and she sat
back on her heels, "comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing
and bowing . . . and that's their whole life. They
never do anything else, you know." She got up
and took some yellow grains out of a bag on the
roof of the dove house. "When you think of them,
out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is
what they will be doing. . . ."

Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or
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MR. AND MRS. DOVE

of having heard a word. For the moment he was
conscious only of the immense effort it took to tear
his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne.
"Anne, do you think you could ever care for me?"
It was done. It was over. And in the little pause
that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the
light, the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on
the veranda poles, and Anne turning over the
grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then
slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded
as she murmured slowly, "No, never in that way."
But he had scarcely time to feel anything before
she walked quickly away, and he followed her down
the steps, along the garden path, under the pink
rose arches, across the lawn. There, with the gay
herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced Reg-
inald. "It isn't that I'm not awfully fond of you,"
she said. "I am. But" — her eyes widened — "not
in the way" — a quiver passed over her face — "one

ought to be fond of " Her lips parted, and

she couldn't stop herself. She began laughing.
"There, you see, you see," she cried, "it's your
check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would
think one really would be solemn, your tie reminds
me fearfully of the bow-tie that cats wear in pic-
tures I Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid,
please!"

Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand.
"There's no question of forgiving you," he said
quickly. "How could there be? And I do believe

125

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

I know why I make you laugh. It's because you're
so far above me in every way that I am somehow
ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were to "

"No, no." Anne squeezed his hand hard. "It's
not that. That's all wrong. I'm not far above you
at all. You're much better than I am. You're
marvellously unselfish and . . . and kind and sim-
ple. I'm none of those things. You don't know
me. I'm the most awful character," said Anne.
"Please don't interrupt. And besides, that's not
the point. The point is" — she shook her head —
"I couldn't possibly marry a man I laughed at.

Surely you see that. The man I marry "

breathed Anne softly. She broke off. She drew
her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled
strangely, dreamily. "The man I marry "

And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome,
brilliant stranger stepped in front of him and took
his place — the kind of man that Anne and he had
seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage
from nowhere, without a word catching the heroine
in his arms, and after one long, tremendous look,
carrying her off to anywhere. . . .

Reggie bowed to his vision. "Yes, I see," he
said huskily.

"Do you?" said Anne. "Oh, I do hope you do.
Because I feel so horrid about it. It's so hard to

explain. You know I've never " She stopped.

Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. "Isn't it
funny?" she said. "I can say anything to you. I

126

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

always have been able to from the very beginning."

He tried to smile, to say "I'm glad." She went
on. "I've never known any one I like as much as
I like you. I've never felt so happy with any one.
But I'm sure it's not what people and what books
mean when they talk about love. Do you under-
stand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I
feel. But we'd be like . . . like Mr. and Mrs.
Dove."

That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and
so terribly true that he could hardly bear it.
"Don't drive it home," he said, and he turned away
from Anne and looked across the lawn. There
was the gardener's cottage, with the dark ilex-tree
beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparent smoke
hung above the chimney. It didn't look real.
How his throat ached! Could he speak? He had
a shot. "I must be getting along home," he
crpaked, and he began walking across the lawn.
But Anne ran after him. "No, don't. You can't
go yet," she said imploringly. "You can't possibly
go away feeling like that." And she stared up at
him frowning, biting her lip.

"Oh, that's all right," said Reggie, giving him-
self a shake. "I'll . . . I'll " And he waved

his hand as much to say "get over it."

"But this is awful," said Anne. She clasped her
hands and stood in front of him. "Surely you do
see how fatal it would be for us to marry, don't
you?"

127

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

"Oh, quite, quite," said Reggie, looking at her
with haggard eyes.

"How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I
mean, it's all very well for Mr. and Mrs. Dove.
But imagine that in real life — imagine itl"

"Oh, absolutely," said Reggie, and he started to
walk on. But again Anne stopped him. She tugged
at his sleeve, and to his astonishment, this time,
instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who
was going to cry.

"Then why, if you understand, are you so ur>
unhappy?" she wailed. "Why do you mind so fear
fully? Why do you look so aw-awful?"

Reggie gulped, and again he waved something
away. "I can't help it," he said, "I've had a blow.
If I cut off now, I'll be able to "

"How can you talk of cutting off now?" said
Anne scornfully. She stamped her foot at Reggie;
she was crimson. "How can you be so cruel? I
can't let you go until I know for certain that you are
just as happy as you were before you asked me to
marry you. Surely you must see that, it's so
simple."

But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It
seemed impossibly difficult.

"Even if I can't marry you, how can I know that
you're all that way away, with only that awful
mother to write to, and that you're miserable, and
that it's all my fault?"

"It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just
128

MR. AND MRS. DOVE

fate." Reggie took her hand off his sleeve and
kissed it. "Don't pity me, dear little Anne," he
said gently. And this time he nearly ran, under
the pink arches, along the garden path.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!" sounded
from the veranda. "Reggie, Reggie," from the
garden.

He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his
timid, puzzled look, she gave a little laugh.

"Come back, Mr. Dove," said Anne. And Reg-
inald came slowly across the lawn.

129

THE YOUNG GIRL

IN her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed,
her blue, blue eyes, and her gold curls pinned
up as though for the first time — pinned
up to be out of the way for her flight — Mrs.
Raddick's daughter might have just dropped from
this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick's timid, faintly
astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if
she believed it, too; but the daughter didn't appear
any too pleased — why should she ? — to have alighted
on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored
• — bored as though Heaven had been full of casinos
with snuffy old saints for croupiers and crowns to
play with.

"You don't mind taking Hennie?" said Mrs. Rad-
dick. "Sure you don't? There's the car, and
you'll have tea and we'll be back here on this step —
right here — in an hour. You see, I want her to go
in. She's not been before, and it's worth seeing.
I feel it wouldn't be fair to her."

"Oh, shut up, mother," said she wearily. "Come
along. Don't talk so much. And your bag's open;
you'll be losing all your money again."

"I'm sorry, darling," said Mrs, Raddick.

"Oh, do come in! I want to make money," said
the impatient voice. "It's all jolly well for you —
but I'm broke !"

130

THE YOUNG GIRL

"Here — take fifty francs, darling, take a hun-
dred!" I saw Mrs. Raddick pressing notes into
her hand as they passed through the swing doors.

Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watch-
ing the people. He had a very broad, delighted
smile.

"I say," he cried, "there's an English bulldog.
Are they allowed to take dogs in there?"

"No, they're not."

"He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I had
one. They're such fun. They frighten people so,
and they're never fierce with their — the people they
belong to." Suddenly he squeezed my arm. "I
say, do look at that old woman. Who is
she? Why does she look like that? Is she a
gambler?"

The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green
satin dress, a black velvet cloak and a white hat
with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowly up the
steps as though she were being drawn up on wires.
She stared in front of her, she was laughing and
nodding and cackling to herself; her claws clutched
round what looked like a dirty boot-bag.

But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick
again with — her — and another lady hovering in the
background. Mrs. Raddick rushed at me. She
was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She
was like a woman who is saying "good-bye" to her
friends on the station platform, with not a minute
to spare before the train starts.

THE YOUNG GIRL

"Oh, you're here, still. Isn't that lucky!
You've not gone. Isn't that fine ! I've had the
most dreadful time with — her," and she waved to
her daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdain-
ful, looking down, twiddling her foot on the step,
miles away. "They won't let her in. I swore she
was twenty-one. But they won't believe me. I
showed the man my purse; I didn't dare to do more.
But it was no use. He simply scoffed. . . . And
now I've just met Mrs. MacEwen from New York,
and she just won thirteen thousand in the Salle
Privee — and she wants me to go back with her while
the luck lasts. Of course I can't leave — her. But
if you'd - "

At that "she" looked up; she simply withered
her mother. "Why can't you leave me?" she said
furiously. "What utter rot! How dare you make
a scene like this? This is the last time1 I'll come
out with you. You really are too awful for words."
She looked her mother up and down. "Calm your-
self," she said superbly.

Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She
was "wild" to go back with Mrs. MacEwen, but at
the same time . . .

I seized my courage. "Would you — do you care
to come to tea with — us?"

"Yes, yes, she'll be delighted. That's just what I
wanted, isn't it, darling? Mrs. MacEwen . . .
I'll be back here in an hour ... or less . . .

132

THE YOUNG GIRL

Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag
was open again.

So we three were left. But really it wasn't my
fault. Hennie looked crushed to the earth, too.
When the car was there she wrapped her dark coat
round her — to escape contamination. Even her
little feet looked as though they scorned to carry
her down the steps to us.,

"I am so awfully sorry," I murmured as the car
started.

"Oh, I don't mind" said she. "I don't want to
look twenty-one. Who would — if they were seven-
teen! It's" — and she gave a faint shudder — "the
stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by old fat
men. Beasts!"

Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered
out of the window.

We drew up before an immense palace of pink-
and-white marble with orange-trees outside the
doors in gold-and-black tubs.

"Would you care to go in?" I suggested.

She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned
herself. "Oh well, there seems nowhere else,"
said she. "Get out, Hennie."

I went first — to find the table, of course — she
followed. But the worst of it was having her little
brother, who was only twelve, with us. That was
the last, final straw — having that child, trailing at
her heels.

There was one table. It had pink carnation*

133

THE YOUNG GIRL

and pink plates with little blue tea-napkins for sails.

"Shall we sit here?"

She put her hand wearily on the back of a white
wicker chair.

"We may as well. Why not?" said she.

Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a
stool at the end. He felt awfully out of it. She
didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her
eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint
violin sounded she winced and bit her lip again.
Silence.

The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask
her. "Tea — coffee? China tea — or iced tea with
lemon?"

Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to
her. She didn't really want anything. Hennie
whispered, "Chocolate !"

But just as the waitress turned away she cried
out carelessly, "Oh, you may as well bring me a
chocolate, too."

While we waited she took out a little, gold
powder-box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor
little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed her
lovely nose.

"Hennie," she said, "take those flowers away."
She pointed with her puff to the carnations, and 1
heard her murmur, "I can't bear flowers on a table."
They had evidently been giving her intense pain,
for she positively closed her eyes as I moved them
away.

134

THE YOUNG GIRL

The waitress came back with the chocolate and
the tea. She put the big, frothing cups before them
and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie buried
his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment,
a little trembling blob of cream on the tip. But
he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman. I
wondered if I should dare draw her attention to
her cup. She didn't notice it — didn't see it — until
suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip. I watched
anxiously; she faintly shuddered.

"Dreadfully sweet!" said she.

A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a choco-
late body came round with a tray of pastries — row
upon row of little freaks, little inspirations, little
melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh,
I'm not at all hungry. Take them away."

He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a
swift look — it must have been satisfactory — for he
took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, a meringue
stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh
strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him.
But just as the boy swerved away she held up her
plate.

"Oh well, give me one," said she.

The silver tongs dropped one, two, three — and
a cherry tartlet. "I don't know why you're giving
me all these," she said, and nearly smiled. "I
shan't eat them; I couldn't!"

I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea,
leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At

135

THE YOUNG GIRL

that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her
eyes and really did smile. "Of course," said she.
"I always expect people to."

But at that moment a tragedy happened to
Hennie. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and
it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table.
Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears
flared, and one ashamed hand crept across the table
to take what was left of the body away.

"You utter little beast!" said she.

Good heavens ! I had to fly to the rescue. I
cried hastily, "Will you be abroad long?"

But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was
forgotten, too. She was trying to remember some-
thing. . . . She was miles away.

"I — don't — know," she said slowly, from that
far place.

"I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more
— more "

When I didn't go on she came back and looked
at me, very puzzled. "More ?"

"Enfin — gayer," I cried, waving my cigarette.

But that took a whole cake to consider. Even
then, "Oh well, that depends!" was all she could
safely say.

Hennie had finished. He was still very warm.

I seized the butterfly list off the table. "I say —
what about an ice, Hennie? What about tangerine
and ginger? No, something cooler. What about
a fresh pineapple cream?"

136

THE YOUNG GIRL

Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her
eye on us. The order was taken when she looked
up from her crumbs.

"Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like
ginger. You can bring me one." And then quickly,
"I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things from the
year One. We were dancing to that all last Christ-
mas. It's too sickening!"

But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed
it, it warmed me.

"I think this is rather a nice place, don't you,
Hennie?" I said.

Hennie said: "Ripping!" He meant to say it
very low, but it came1 out very high in a kind of
squeak.

Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time
she stared about her, trying to see what there was.
. . . She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A
very good-looking elderly man stared back at her
through a monocle on a black ribbon. But him she
simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air
where he was. She looked through and through
him.

Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass
plates. Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she
pulled on her white gloves again. She had some
trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her
way. She tugged at it — tried to break the stupid
little thing — it wouldn't break. Finally, she had
to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she

137

THE YOUNG GIRL

couldn't stand this place a moment longer, and, h
deed, she jumped up and turned away while I went
through the vulgar act of paying for the tea.

And then we were outside again. It had grown
dusky. The sky was sprinkled with small stars;
the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car
to come up she stood on the step, just as before,
twiddling her foot, looking down.

Hennie bounded forward to open the door and
she got in and sank back with — oh — such a sigh!

"Tell him," she gasped, "to drive as fast as he
can."

Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur.
"Allie veet!" said he. Then he composed himself
and sat on the small seat facing us.

The gold powder-box came out again. Again
the poor little puff was shaken; again there was that
swift, deadly-secret glance between her and the
mirror.

We tore through the black-and-gold town like a
pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Hennie
had great difficulty not to look as though he were
hanging on to something.

And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs.
Raddick wasn't there. There wasn't a sign of her
on the steps — not a sign.

"Will you stay in the car while I go and look?"

But no — she wouldn't do that. Good heavens,
no! Hennie could stay. She couldn't bear sitting
in a car. She'd wait on the steps.

138

THE YOUNG GIRL

"But I scarcely like to leave you," I murmured.
"I'd very much rather not leave you here."

At that she threw back her coat; she turned and
faced me; her lips parted. "Good heavens — why!
I — I don't mind it a bit. I — I like waiting."
And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew
dark — for a moment I thought she was going to
cry. "L — let me, please," she stammered, in a
warm, eager voice. "I like it. I love waiting!
Really — really I do! I'm always waiting — an all
kinds of places. . . ."

Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat — •
all her soft young body in the blue dress — was like
a flower that is just emerging from its dark bud.

139

LIFE OF MA PARKER

WHEN the literary gentleman, whose flat
old Ma Parker cleaned every Tuesday,
opened the door to her that morning, he
asked after her grandson. Ma Parker stood on the
doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched
out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door be-
fore she replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir,"
she said quietly.

"Oh, dear me ! I'm sorry to hear that," said the
literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in
the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby
dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper
in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could
hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without
saying something — something more. Then because
these people set such store by funerals he said kindly,
"I hope the funeral went off all right."

"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily.

Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope
the funeral was a — a — success," said he. Ma Par-
ker gave no answer. She bent her head and hob-
bled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that
held her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of
felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eye-
brows and went back to his breakfast.

140

LIFE OF MA PARKER

"Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud, helping
himself to the marmalade.

Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her
toque and hung it behind the door. She unhooked
her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she
tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots.
To take off her boots or to put them on was an
agony to her, but it had been an agony for years.
In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her
face was drawn and screwed up ready for the twinge
before she'd so much as untied the laces. That
over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her
knees. . . .

"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on
her lap in his button boots. He'd just come in from
playing in the street.

"Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt
into — you wicked boy!"

But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed
his check against hers.

"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed.

"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies."

"Yes, you 'ave."

"No, I ain't."

"Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!"

Already she was feeling for the old, squashed,
black leather purse.

"Well, what'll you give your gran?"

He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer.
141

LIFE OF MA PARKER

She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. "I
ain't got nothing," he murmured. . . .

The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle
off the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The
noise of the water drumming in the kettle deadened
her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the
washing-up bowl.

It would take a whole book to describe the state
of that kitchen. During the week the literary gen-
tleman "did" for himself. That is to say, he emp-
tied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar
set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of
clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller
towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends,
his "system" was quite simple, and he couldn't under-
stand why people made all this fuss about house-
keeping.

"You simply dirty everything you've got, get
a hag in once ?. week to clean up, and the thing's
done."

The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even
the floor was littered with toast crusts, envelopes,
cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him no
grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for
having no one to look after him. Out of the
smudgy little window you could see an immense ex-
panse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were
clouds they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at

142

LIFE OF MA PARKER

the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains like
tea.

While the water was heating, Ma Parker began
sweeping the floor. "Yes," she thought, as the
broom knocked, "what with one thing and another
I've had my share. I've had a hard life."

Even the neighbours said that of her. Many
a time, hobbling home with her fish bag she heard
them, waiting at the corner, or leaning over the
area railings, say among themselves, "She's had a
hard life, has Ma Parker." And it was so true
she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was just as
if you were to say she lived in the basement-back
at Number 27. A hard life! . . .

At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to
London as kitching-maid. Yes, she was born in
Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people
were always arsking her about him. But she'd never
heard his name until she saw it on the theatres.

Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sit-
ting in the fire-place of a evening you could see the
stars through the chimley," and "Mother always
'ad 'er side of bacon 'anging from the ceiling."
And there was something — a bush, there was — at
the front door, that smelt ever so nice. But the
bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it
once or twice in the hospital, when she'd been taken
bad.

*43

LIFE OF MA PARKER

That was a dreadful place — her first place. She
was never allowed out. She never went upstairs
except for prayers morning and evening. It was a
fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman.
She used to snatch away her letters from home be-
fore she'd read them, and throw them in the range
because they made her dreamy. . . . And the
beedles! Would you believe it? — until she came to
London she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Ma
always gave a little laugh, as though — not to have
seen a black beedle! Well! It was as if to say
you'd never seen your own feet.

When that family was sold up she went as "help"
to a doctor's house, and after two years there, on
the run from morning till night, she married her
husband. He was a baker.

"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman
would say. For occasionally he laid aside his tomes
and lent an ear, at least, to this product called Life.
"It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!"

Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure.

"Such a clean trade," said the gentleman.

Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced.

"And didn't you like handing the new loaves to
the customers?"

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the
shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little
ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the
rospital it was the infirmary, you might say!"

"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the
144

LIFE OF MA PARKER

gentleman, shuddering, and taking up his pen again.

Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still
small her husband was taken ill with consumption.
It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her at the
time. . . . Her husband sat up in bed with his
shirt pulled over his head, and the doctor's finger
drew a circle on his back.

"Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs.
Parker," said the doctor, "you'd find his lungs chock-
a-block with white powder. Breathe, my good
fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain
whether she saw or whether she fancied she saw a
great fan of white dust come out of her poor dead
husband's lips. . . ,

But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six
little children and keep herself to herself. Terrible
it had been ! Then, just when they were old enough
to go to school her husband's sister came to stop with
them to help things along, and she hadn't been there
more than two months when she fell down a flight of
steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma
Parker had another baby — and such a one for cry-
ing!— to look after. Then young Maudie went
wrong and took her sister Alice with her; the two
boys emigrimated, and young Jim went to India
with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a
good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers
the year little Lennie was born. And now little
Lennie — my grandson. . . .

The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed

LIFE OF MA PARKER

and dried. The ink-black knives were cleaned with
a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of
cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and
the sink that had sardine tails swimming in it., . . .

He'd never been a strong child — never from the
first. He'd been one of those fair babies that every-
body took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he had,
blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one
side of his nose. The trouble she and Ethel had
had to rear that child! The things out of the news-
papers they tried him with! Every Sunday morn-
ing Ethel would read aloud while Ma Parker did her
washing.

"Dear Sir, — Just a line to let you know my little
Myrtil was laid out for dead. . . . After four
bottils . . . gained 8 Ibs. in 9 weeks, and is still
putting it on"

And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the
dresser and the letter would be written, and Ma
would buy a postal order on her way to work next
morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little
Lennie put it on. Taking him to the cemetery,
even, never gave him a colour ; a nice shake-up in the
bus never improved his appetite.

But he was gran's boy from the first. . . .

"Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker,
straightening up from the stove and going over to
the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm,
so close, it half stifled her — it seemed to be in her

146

LIFE OF MA PARKER

breast under her heart — laughed out, and said, "I'm
gran's boy!"

At that moment there was a sound of steps, and
the literary gentleman appeared, dressed for walk-
ing.

"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out."

"Very good, sir."

"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the
inkstand."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary
gentleman quickly, "you didn't throw away any
cocoa last time you were here — did you?"

"No, sir."

"Very strange. I could have sworn I left a tea-
spoonful of cocoa in the tin." He broke off. He
said softly and firmly, "You'll always tell me when
you throw things away — won't you, Mrs. Parker?"
And he walked off very well pleased with himself,
convinced, in fact, he'd shown Mrs. Parker that
under his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as
a woman.

The door banged. She took her brushes and
cloths into the bedroom. But when she began to
make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the
thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why
did he have to suffer so? That's what she couldn't
understand. Why should a little angel child have
to arsk for his breath and fight for it? There wa?
no sense in making a child suffer like that.

LIFE OF MA PARKER

. . . From Lennie's little box of a chest there
came a sound as though something was boiling.
There was a great lump of something bubbling in
his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he
coughed the sweat sprang out on his head; his eyes
bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bub-
bled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what
was more awful than all was when he didn't cough
he sat against the pillow and never spoke or an-
swered, or even made as if he heard. Only he
looked offended.

"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey,"
said old Ma Parker, patting back the damp hair
from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his
head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with
her he looked — and solemn. He bent his head and
looked at her sideways as though he couldn't have
believed it of his gran.

But at the last . . . Ma Parker threw the
counterpane over the bed. No, she simply couldn't
think about it., It was too much — she'd had too
much in her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now,
she'd kept herself to herself, and never once had she
been seen to cry. Never by a living soul. Not
even her own children had seen Ma break down.
She'd kept a proud face always. But now! Lennie
gone — what had she? She had nothing. He was
all she'd got from life, and now he was took too.
Why must it all have happened to me? she won-

148

LIFE OF MA PARKER

dered. "What have I done?" said old Ma Parker.
"What have I done?"

As she said those words she suddenly let fall her
brush. She found herself in the kitchen. Her
misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat,
put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a
person in a dream. She did not know what she was
doing. She was like a person so dazed by the hor-
ror of what has happened that he walks away —
anywhere, as though by walking away he could
escape. . . .

It was cold in the street. There was a wind like
ice. People went flitting by, very fast; the men
walked like scissors; the women trod like cats. And
nobody knew — nobody cared. Even if she broke
lown, if at last, after all these years, she were to
:ry, she'd find herself in the lock-up as like as not.
But at the thought of crying it was as though
little Lennie leapt in his gran's arms. Ah, that's
what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants to
cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time,
over everything, beginning with her first place and
the cruel cook, going on to the doctor's, and then the
seven little ones, death of her husband, the chil-
dren's leaving her, and all the years of misery that
led up to Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all
these things would take a long time. All the same,
the time for it had come. She must do it. She

149

LIFE OF MA PARKER

couldn't put it off any longer ; she couldn't wait any
more. . . ., Where could she go?

"She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." Yes, a
hard life, indeed! Her chin began to tremble;
there was no time to lose. But where? Where?

She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It
would frighten Ethel out of her life. She couldn't
sit on a bench anywhere; people would come arsking
her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the
gentleman's flat; she had no right to cry in strangers'
houses. If she sat on some steps a policeman would
speak to her.

Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide
and keep herself to herself and stay as long as she
liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worry-
ing her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world
where she could have her cry out — at last?

Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The
icy wind blew out her apron into a balloon. And
now it began to rain. There was nowhere.

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MARRIAGE A LA MODE

ON his way to the station William remem-
bered with a fresh pang of disappointment
that he was taking nothing down to the
kiddies. Poor little chaps! It was hard lines on
them. Their first words always were as they ran
to greet him, "What have you got for me, daddy?"
and he had nothing. He would have to buy them
some sweets at the station. But that was what he
had done for the past four Saturdays; their faces
had fallen last time when they saw the same old
boxes produced again.

And Paddy had said, "I had red ribbing on mine
bee-fore I"

And Johnny had said, "It's always pink On mine,
I hate pink."

But what was William to do? The affair wasn't
so easily settled. In the old days, of course, he
would have taken a taxi off to a decent toyshop
md chosen them something in five minutes. But
lowadays they had Russian toys, French toys, Serb*
ian toys — toys from God knows where. It was
over a year since Isabel had scrapped the old don-
keys and engines and so on because they were so
"dreadfully sentimental" and "so appallingly bad
for the babies' sense of form."

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

"It's so important," the new Isabel had explained,
"that they should like the right things from the
very beginning. It saves so much time later on.
Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant
years staring at these horrors, one can imagine them
growing up and asking to be taken to the Royal
Academy."

And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal
Academy was certain immediate death to any
one. . . .

"Well, I don't know," said William slowly.
"When I was their age I used to go to bed hugging
an old towel with a knot in it."

The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes nar-
rowed, her lips apart.

"Dear William! I'm sure you did!" She
laughed in the new way.

Sweets it would have to be, however, thought Wil-
liam gloomily, fishing in his pocket for change for
the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies handing the
boxes round — they were awfully generous little
chaps — while Isabel's precious friends didn't hesi-
tate to help themselves. . . .

What about fruit? William hovered before a
stall just inside the station. What about a melon
each? Would they have to share that, too? Or
a pineapple for Pad, and a melon for Johnny?
Isabel's friends could hardly go sneaking up to the
nursery at the children's meal-times. All the same,
as he bought the melon William had a horrible

152

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

vision of one of Isabel's young poets lapping
up a slice, for some reason, behind the nursery-
door.

With his two very awkward parcels he strode off
to his train. The platform was crowded, the train
was in. Doors banged open and shut. There
came such a loud hissing from the engine that people
looked dazed as they scurried to and fro. Wil-
liam made straight for a first-class smoker, stowed
away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge
wad of papers out of his inner pocket, he flung
down in the corner and began to read.

"Our client moreover is positive. . . . We are

inclined to reconsider ... in the. event of "

Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flat-
tened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage
floor. The familiar dull gnawing in his breast
quietened down. "With regard to our de-
cision " He took out a blue pencil and scored a

paragraph slowly.

Two men came in, stepped across him, and made
for the farther corner. A young fellow swung his
golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. The
train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William
glanced up and saw the hot, bright station slipping
away. A red-faced girl raced along by the carriages,
there was something strained and almost desperate
in the way she waved and called. "Hysterical!"
thought William dully. Then a greasy, black-faced
workman at the end of the platform grinned at the

153

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

passing train. And William thought, "A filthy
life !" and went back to his papers.

When he looked up again there were fields, and
beasts standing for shelter under the dark trees.
A wide river, with naked children splashing in the
shallows, glided into sight and was gone again.
The sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a
dark fleck in a jewel.

"We have examined our client's correspondence
files. . . ." The last sentence he had read echoed
in his mind. "We have examined . . ." William
hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it
snapped in the middle, and the fields, the sky, the
sailing bird, the water, all said, "Isabel." The
same thing happened every Saturday afternoon.
When he was on his way to meet Isabel there began
those countless imaginary meetings. She was at the
station, standing just a little apart from everybody
else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she
was at the garden gate; walking across the parched
grass; at the door, or just inside the hall.

And her clear, light voice said, "It's William,"
or "Hillo, William!" or "So William has come!"
He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek.

The exquisite freshness of Isabel ! When he had
been a little boy, it was his delight to run into the
garden after a shower of rain and shake the rose-
bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-
sjft, sparkling and cool. And he was still that little
boy. But there was no running into the garden now,

154

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent
gnawing in his breast started again. He drew up
his legs, tossed the papers aside, and shut his
eyes.

"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he said ten-
derly. They were in their bedroom in the new
house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the
dressing-table that was strewn with little black and
green boxes.

"What is what, William?" And she bent for-
ward, and her fine light hair fell over her cheeks.

"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle of the
strange room and he felt a stranger. At that Isabel
wheeled round quickly and faced him.

"Oh, William !" she cried imploringly, and she
held up the hair-brush: "Please! Please don't be
so dreadfully stuffy and — tragic. You're always
saying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just
because I've got to know really congenial people,
and go about more, and am frightfully keen on — on

.everything, you behave as though I'd " Isabel

tossed back her hair and laughed — "killed our love
or something. It's so awfully absurd" — she bit
her lip — "and it's so maddening, William. Even
this new house and the servants you grudge me."

"Isabel!"

"Yes, yes, it's true in a way," said Isabel quickly.
"You think they are another bad sign. Oh, I
know you do. I feel it," she said softly, "every
time you come up the stairs., But we couldn't have

155

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

gone on living in that other poky little hole, William.
Be practical, at least! Why, there wasn't enough
room for the babies even."

No, it was true. Every morning when he came
back from chambers it was to find the babies with
Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were hav-
ing rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa
back, or they were playing shops with Isabel's desk
for a counter, or Pad was sitting on the hearthrug
rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire
shovel, while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs.
Every evening they each had a pick-a-back up the
narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny.

Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A
little white house with blue curtains and a window-
box of petunias. William met their friends at the
door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for
London, don't you think?"

But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordin-
ary thing was that he hadn't the slightest idea that
Isabel wasn't as happy as he. God, what blindness !
He hadn't the remotest notion in those days that she
really hated that inconvenient little house, that she
thought the fat Nanny was ruining the babies, that
she was desperately lonely, pining for new people
an4 new music and pictures and so on. If they
hadn't gone to that studio party at Moira Morri-
son's— if Moira Morrison hadn't said as they were
leaving, "I'm going to rescue your wife, selfish man.
She's like an exquisite little Titania" — if Isab^1

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

hadn't gone with Moira to Paris — if — if . . .

The train stopped at another station. Betting- /
ford. Good heavens! They'd be there in ten min-
utes. William stuffed the papers back into his
pockets; the young man opposite had long since dis-
appeared. Now the other two got out. The late
afternoon sun shone on women in cotton frocks and
little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a
silky yellow flower with coarse leaves which
sprawled over a bank of rock. The air rufHing
through the window smelled of the sea. Had
Isabel the same crowd with her this week-end, won-
dered William?

And he remembered the holidays they used to
have, the four of them, with a little farm girl, Rose,
to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jersey and
her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord!
how his nose used to peel! And the amount they
ate, and the amount they slept in that immense
feather bed with their feet locked together. . . .
William couldn't help a grim smile as he thought
of Isabel's horror if she knew the full extent of his
sentimentality.

• * • • • • •

"Hillo, William!" She was at the station after
all, standing just as he had imagined, apart from
the others, and — William's heart leapt — she was
alone.

"Hallo, Isabel!" William stared. He thought

157

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

she looked so beautiful that he had to say something,
"You look very cool."

"Do I?" said Isabel. "I don't feel very cool.
Come along, your horrid old train is late. The
:axi's outside." She put her hand lightly on his arm
as they passed the ticket collector. "We've all come
to meet you," she said. "But we've left Bobby
Kane at the sweet shop, to be called for."

"Oh !" said William. It was all he could say for
the moment.

There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt
and Dennis Green sprawling on one side, their hats
tilted over their faces, while on the other, Moira
Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry,
jumped up and down.

"No ice! No ice! No ice!" she shouted gaily.

And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. "Only
to be had from the fishmonger's."

And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, "With whole fish
in it."

"Oh, what a bore I" wailed Isabel. And she ex-
plained to William how they had been chasing round
the town for ice while she waited for him. "Simply
everything is running down the steep cliffs into the
sea, beginning with the butter."

"We shall have to anoint ourselves with the
butter," said Dennis. "May thy head, William,
lack not ointment."

"Look here," said William, "how are we going
to sit? I'd better get up by the driver."

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

"No, Bobby Kane's by the driver," said Isabel.
"You're to sit between Moira and me." The taxi
started. "What have you got in those mysterious
parcels?"

"De-cap-it-ated heads !" said Bill Hunt, shudder-
ing beneath his hat.

"Oh, fruit!" Isabel sounded very pleased. "Wise
William! A melon and a pineapple. How too
nice !"

"No, wait a bit," said William, smiling. But he
really was anxious. "I brought them down for the
kiddies."

"Oh, my dear!" Isabel laughed, and slipped her
hand through his arm. "They'd be rolling in
agonies if they were to eat them. No" — she patted
his hand — "you must bring them something next
time. I refuse to part with my pineapple."

"Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!" said Moira.
She flung her arms across William appealingly.
"Oh I" The strawberry bonnet fell forward: she
sounded quite faint.

"A Lady in Love with a Pineapple," said Dennis,
as the taxi drew up before a little shop with a
striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his arms full
•of little packets.

"I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen them
because of the colours. There are some round
things which really look too divine. And just look
at this nougat," he cried ecstatically, "just look at
it! It's a perfect little ballet."

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MARRIAGE A LA MODE

But at that moment the shopman appeared. "Oh,
I forgot. They're none of them paid for," said
Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shop-
man a note, and Bobby was radiant again. "Hallo,
William! I'm sitting by the driver." And bare-
headed, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up to tfye
shoulders, he leapt into his place. "Avanti I" he
cried. . . .

After tea the others went off to bathe, while
William stayed and made his peace with the kiddies.
But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the rose-red
glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers
had not returned. As William wandered down-
stairs, the maid crossed the hall carrying a lamp.
He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a
long room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite
William some one had painted a young man, over
life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed
daisy to a young woman who had one very short
arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs
and sofa there hung strips of black material, covered
with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere
one looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of
cigarette ends. William sat down in one of the
arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one
hand down the sides, it wasn't to come upon a sheep
with three legs or a cow that had lost one horn, or
a very fat dove out of the Noah's Ark. One fished
up yet another little paper-covered book of smudged-
looking poems. . . . He thought of the wad of

1 60

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired
to read. The door was open ; sounds came from the
kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were
alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud
screech of laughter and an equally loud "Sh!" They
had remembered him. William got up and went
through the French windows into the garden, and as
he stood there in the shadow he heard the bathers
coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through
the quiet.

"I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and
wiles."

A tragic moan from Moira.

"We ought to have a gramophone for the week-
ends that played 'The Maid of the Mountains.' "

"Oh no! Oh no!" cried Isabel's voice. "That's
not fair to William. Be nice to him, my children!
He's only staying until to-morrow evening."

"Leave him to me," cried Bobby Kane. "I'm
awfully good at looking after people."

The gate swung open and shut. William moved
on the terrace; they had seen him. "Hallo,
William!" And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel,
began to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn.
"Pity you didn't come, William. The water was
divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards
and had sloe gin."

The others had reached the house. "I say,
Isabel," called Bobby, "would you like me to wear
my Nijinsky dress to-night?"

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MARRIAGE A LA MODE

"No," said Isabel, "nobody's going to dress.
We're all starving. William's starving, too.
Come along, mes amis, let's begin with sardines."

"I've found the sardines," said Moira, and she
ran into the hall, holding a box high in the air.

"A Lady with a Box of Sardines," said Dennis
gravely.

"Well, William, and how's London?" asked Bill
Hunt, drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky.

"Oh, London's not much changed," answered
William.

"Good old London," said Bobby, very hearty,
spearing a sardine.

But a moment later William was forgotten.
Moira Morrison began wondering what colour one's
legs really were under water.

"Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour."

Bill and Dennis ate enormously.) And Isabel
filled glasses, and changed plates, and found matches,
smiling blissfully. At one moment she said, "I do
wish, Bill, you'd paint it."

"Paint what?" said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth
with bread.

"Us," said Isabel, "round the table. It would
be so fascinating in twenty years' time."

Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. "Light's
wrong," he said rudely, "far too much yellow"; and
went on eating. And that seemed to charm Isabel,
too.

But after supper they were all so tired they could

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

do nothing but yawn until it was late enough to go
to bed. . . .

It was not until William was waiting for his taxi
the next afternoon that he found himself alone with
Isabel. When he brought his suit-case down into
the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him.
She stooped down and picked up the suit-case.
"What a weight!" she said, and she gave a little
awkward laugh. "Let me carry it! To the gate."

"No, why should you?" said William. "Of
course, not. Give it to me."

"Oh, please do let me," said Isabel. "I want to,
really." They walked together silently. William
felt there was nothing to say now.

"There," said Isabel triumphantly, setting the
suit-case down, and she looked anxiously along the
sandy road. "I hardly seem to have seen you this
time," she said breathlessly. "It's so short, isn't

it? I feel you've only just come. Next time "

The taxi came into sight. "I hope they look after
you properly in London. I'm so sorry the babies
have been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged
it. They'll hate missing you. Poor William, go-
ing back to London." The taxi turned. "Good-
bye!" She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was
gone.

Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook
fhrough the empty, blind-looking little town, ground
up the steep pull to the station.

The train was in. William made straight for
a first-class smoker, flung back into the corner, but

163

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

this time he let the papers alone. He folded his
arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began
in his mind to write a letter to Isabel.

The post was late as usual. They sat outside the
house in long chairs under coloured parasols. Only
Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel's feet. It was
dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag.

"Do you think there will be Mondays in
Heaven?" asked Bobby childishly.

And Dennis murmured, "Heaven will be one long
Monday."

But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had
happened to the salmon they had for supper last
night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for
lunch and now . . .

Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest dis-
covery. "It's so wonderful. One simply shuts
one's eyes, that's all. It's so deliciou^."

When the old ruddy postman came beating along
the sandy road on his tricycle one felt the handle-
bars ought to have been oars.

Bill Hunt put down his book. "Letters," he
said complacently, and they all waited. But, heart-
less postman — O malignant world! There was
only one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper.

"And mine's only from William," said Isabel
mournfully.

"From William— already?"
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MARRIAGE A LA MODE

"He's sending you back your marriage lines as a
gentle reminder."

"Does everybody have marriage lines? I
thought they were only for servants."

"Pages and pages ! Look at her ! A Lady read-
ing a Letter," said Dennis.

My darling, precious Isabel. Pages and pages
there were. As Isabel read on her feeling of aston-
ishment changed to a stifled feeling. What on earth
had induced William . . .? How extraordinary it
was. . . . What could have made him . . .? She
felt confused, more and more excited, even
frightened. It was just like William. Was it?
It was absurd, of course, it must be absurd, ridicu-
lous. "Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!" What was she to
do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till
she couldn't stop laughing.

"Do, do tell us," said the others. "You must tell
us."

"I'm longing to," gurgled Isabel. She sat up,
gathered the letter, and waved it at them. "Gather
round," she said. "Listen, it's too marvellous. A
love-letter!"

"A love-letter! But how divine!" Darling,
precious Isabel. But she had hardly begun before
their laughter interrupted her.

"Go on, Isabel, it's perfect."

"It's the most marvellous find."

"Oh, do go on, Isabel!"
165

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag
on your happiness.

"Oh! oh! oh!"

"Sh!sh!sh!"

And Isabel went on. When she reached the end
they were hysterical: Bobby rolled on the turf and
almost sobbed.

"You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for
my new book," said Dennis firmly. "I shall give it
a whole chapter."

"Oh, Isabel," moaned Moira, "that wonderful
bit about holding you in his arms!"

"I always thought those letters in divorce cases
were made up. But they pale before this."

"Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self,"
said Bobby Kane.,

But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in
her hand. She was laughing no longer. She
glanced quickly at them all; she looked exhausted.
"No, not just now. Not just now," she stammered.

And before they could recover she had run into
the house, through the hall, up the stairs into her
bedroom. Down she sat on the side of the bed.
"How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar," muttered
Isabel. She pressed her eyes with her knuckles and
rocked to and fro. And again she saw them, but
not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeer-
ing, stretching out their hands while she read them
William's letter. Oh, what a loathsome thing to
have done. How could she have done it! God

1 66

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your
happiness. William ! Isabel pressed her face into
the pillow. But she felt that even the grave bedroom
knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling,
vain. . . .

Presently from the garden below there came
voices.

"Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come !"

"Come, thou wife of William!"

"Call her once before you go, call once yet!"

Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she
must decide. Would she go with them, or stay here
and write to William. Which, which should it be?
"I must make up my mind." Oh, but how could
there be any question? Of cmirse she would stay
here and write.

"Titania!" piped Moira.

"Isa-bel?"

No, it was too difficult. "I'll— I'll go with them,
and write to William later. Some other time.
Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write,"
thought Isabel hurriedly.

And, laughing in the new way, she ran down the
stairs.

167

THE VOYAGE

THE Picton boat was due to leave at half-
past eleven. It was a beautiful night,
mild, starry, only when they got out of the
cab and started to walk down the Old Wharf that
jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing off
the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up
her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old
Wharf, very dark; the wool sheds, the cattle trucks,
the cranes standing up so high, the little squat
railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid
darkness. Here and there on a rounded wood-
pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black mush-
room, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to
unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness;
it burned softly, as if for itself.

Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous
strides. Beside him her grandma bustled along in
her crackling black ulster; they went so fast that she
had now and again to give an undignified little skip
to keep up with them. As well as her luggage
strapped into a neat sausage, Fenella carried clasped
to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle,
which was a swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a
sharp little peck as if it too wanted her to hurry. . . .
Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned

1 68

THE VOYAGE

up, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried
along; and one tiny boy, only his little black arms
and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was
jerked along angrily between his father and mother;
he looked like a baby fly that had fallen into the
cream.

Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her
grandma both leapt, there sounded from behind the
largest wool shed, that had a trail of smoke hang-
ing over it, Mia-oo-oo-O-Of

"First whistle," said her father briefly, and at that
moment they came in sight of the Picton boat. Ly-
ing beside the dark wharf, all strung, all beaded with
round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she
was more ready to sail among stars than out into the
cold sea. People pressed along the gangway.
First went her grandma, then her father, then Fen-
ella. There was a high step down on to the deck,
and an old sailor in a jersey standing by gave her his
dry, hard hand. They were there ; they stepped out
of the way of the hurrying people, and standing
under a little iron stairway that led to the upper
deck they began to say good-bye.

"There, mother, there's your luggage!" said
Fenella's father, giving grandma another strapped-
up sausage.

"Thank you, Frank."

"And you've got your cabin tickets safe?"

"Yes, dear."

"And your other tickets?"
169

THE VOYAGE

Grandma felt for them inside her glove and
showed him the tips.

"That's right."

He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching
him, saw that he looked tired and sad. Mia-oo-oo-
O-O! The second whistle blared just above their
heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, "Any more
for the gangway?"

"You'll give my love to father," Fenella saw her
father's lips say. And her grandma, very agitated,
answered, "Of course I will, dear. Go now.
You'll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now."

"It's all right, mother. I've got another three
minutes." To her surprise Fenella saw her father
take off his hat. He clasped grandma in his arms
and pressed her to him. "God bless you, mother !"
she heard him say.

And grandma put her hand, with the black thread
glove that was worn through on her ring finger,
against his cheek, and she sobbed, "God bless you,
my own brave son !"

This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her
back on them, swallowed once, twice, and frowned
terribly at a little green star on a mast head. But
she had to turn round again; her father was going.

"Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl." His cold,
wet moustache brushed her cheek. But Fenella
caught hold of the lapels of his coat.

"How long am I going to stay?" she whispered
anxiously. He wouldn't look at her. He shook

170

THE VOYAGE

her off gently, and gently said, "We'll see about that.
Here! Where's your hand?" He pressed some-
thing into her palm. "Here's a shilling in case you
should need it."

A shilling! She must be going away for ever!
"Father!" cried Fenella. But he was gone. He
was the last off the ship. The sailors put their
shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark
rope went flying through the air and fell "thump"
on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled.
Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to
edge away from them. Now there was a rush of
water between. Fenella strained to see with all her
might. "Was that father turning round?" — or
waving? — or standing alone? — or walking off by
himself? The strip of water grew broader, darker.
Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady,
pointing out to sea. It was no good looking any
longer. There was nothing to be seen but a few
lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air,
and more lights, little patches of them, on the dark
hills.

The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirts;
she went back to her grandma. To her relief
grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the
two sausages of luggage one on top of the other,
and she was sitting on them, her hands folded, her
head a little on one side. There was an intent,
bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her
lips were moving and guessed that she was praying.

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THE VOYAGE

But the old woman gave her a bright nod as if to
say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her
hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward,
and at last gave herself a soft shake.

"And now, child," she said, fingering the bow of
her bonnet-strings, "I think we ought to see about
our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you don't
slip."

"Yes, grandma!"

"And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught in
the stair rail. I saw a beautiful umbrella broken
in half like that on my way over."

"Yes, grandma."

Dark figures of men lounged against the rails.
In the glow of their pipes a nose shone out, or the
peak of a cap, or a pair of surprised-looking eye-
brows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a lit-
tle figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets,
stood staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so
little, and she thought the stars rocked too. And
now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a tray
high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a
lighted doorway and skimmed past them. They
went through that doorway. Carefully over the
high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then
down such a terribly steep flight of stair's that
grandma had to put both feet on each step, and Fen-
ella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all
about the swan-necked umbrella.

At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was
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THE VOYAGE

rather afraid she was going to pray again. But no,
it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They were
in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling;
the air smelled of paint and burnt chop-bones and
indiarubber.! Fenella wished her grandma would
go on, but the old woman was not to be hurried.
An immense basket of ham sandwiches caught her
eye. She went up to them and touched the top one
delicately with her finger.

"How much are the sandwiches?" she asked.

"Tuppence!" bawled a rude steward, slamming
down a knife and fork.

Grandma could hardly believe it.

"Twopence each?" she asked.

"That's right," said the steward, and he winked
at his companion.

Grandma made a small, astonished face. Then
she whispered primly to Fenella. "What wicked-
ness !" And they sailed out at the further door and
along a passage that had cabins on either side.
Such a very nice stewardess came to meet them.
She was dressed all in blue, and her collar and cuffs
were fastened with large brass buttons. She
seemed to know grandma well.

"Well, Mrs. Crane," said she, unlocking their
washstand. "We've got you back again. It's not
often you give yourself a cabin."

"No," said grandma. "But this time my de?.r
son's thoughtfulness "

"I hope " began the stewardess. Then she

173

THE VOYAGE

turned round and took a long mournful look at
grandma's blackness and at Fenella's black coat and
skirt, black blouse, and hat with a crape rose.

Grandma nodded. "It was God's will," said she.

The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep
breath, she seemed to expand.

"What I always say is," she said, as though it
Was her own discovery, "sooner or later each of us
has to go, and that's a certingty." She paused.
"Now, can I bring you anything, Mrs. Crane? A
cup of tea? I know it's no good offering you a
little something to keep the cold out."

Grandma shook her head. "Nothing, thank you.
We've got a few wine biscuits, and Fenella has a
very nice banana."

"Then I'll give you a look later on," said the
stewardess, and she went out, shutting the door.

What a very small cabin it was ! It was like be-
ing shut up in a box with grandma. The dark
round eye above the washstand gleamed at them
dully. Fenella felt shy. She stood against the
door, still clasping her luggage and the umbrella.
Were they going to get undressed in here? Al-
ready her grandma had taken off her bonnet, and,
rolling up the strings, she fixed each with a pin to
the lining before she hung the bonnet up. Her
white hair shone like silk; the little bun at the back
was covered with a black net. Fenella hardly ever
saw her grandma with her head uncovered; she
looked strange.

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THE VOYAGE

"I shall put on the woollen fascinator your dear
mother crocheted for me," said grandma, and, un-
strapping the sausage, she took it out and wound it
round her head; the fringe of grey bobbles danced
at her eyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mourn-
fully at Fenella. Then she undid her bodice, and
something under that, and something else under-
neath that. Then there seemed a short, sharp
tussle, and grandma flushed faintly. Snip ! Snap !
She had undone her stays. She breathed a sigh of
relief, and sitting on the plush couch, she slowly
and carefully pulled off her elastic-sided boots and
stood them side by side.

By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and
skirt and put on her flannel dressing-gown grandma
was quite ready.

"Must I take off my boots, grandma? They're
lace."

Grandma gave them a moment's deep considera-
tion. "You'd feel a great deal more comfortable
if you did, child," said she. She kissed Fenella.
"Don't forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord
is with us when we are at sea even more than when
we are on dry land. And because I am an experi-
enced traveller," said grandma briskly, "I shall take
the upper berth."

"But, grandma, however will you get up
there?"

Three little spider-like steps were all Fenella saw.
The old woman gave a small silent laugh .before

175

THE VOYAGE

she mounted them nimbly, and she peered over the
high bunk at the astonished Fenella.

"You didn't think your grandma could do that,
did you?" said she. And as she sank back Fenella
heard her light laugh again.

The hard square of brown soap would not lather,
and the water in the bottle was like a kind of blue
jelly. How hard it was, too, to turn down those
stiff sheets; you simply had to tear your way in. If
everything had been different, Fenella might have
got the giggles. . . . At last she was inside, and
while she lay there panting, there sounded from
above a long, soft whispering, as though some one
was gently, gently rustling among tissue paper to
find something. It was grandma saying her
prayers. . . .

A long time passed. Then the stewardess came
in; she trod softly and leaned her hand on grandma's
bunk.

"We've just entering the Straits," she said.

"Oh!"

"It's a fine night, but we're rather empty. We
may pitch a little."

And indeed at that moment the Picton boat rose
and rose and hung in the air just long enough to
give a shiver before she swung down again, and
there was the sound of heavy water slapping
against her sides. Fenella remembered she had
left that swan-necked umbrella standing up on

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THE VOYAGE

little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But
grandma remembered too, at the same time.

"I wonder if you'd mind, stewardess, laying down
my umbrella," she whispered.

"Not at all, Mrs. Crane." And the stewardess,
coming back to grandma, breathed, "Your little
granddaughter's in such a beautiful sleep."

"God be praised for that!" said grandma.

"Poor little motherless mite!" said the stew-
ardess. And grandma was still telling the stew-
ardess all about what happened when Fenella fell
asleep.

But she hadn't been asleep long enough to dream
before she woke up again to see something waving
in the air above her head. What was it? What
could it be? It was a small grey foot. Now
another joined it. They seemed to be feeling about
for something; there came a sigh.

"I'm awake, grandma," said Fenella.

"Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?" asked
grandma. "I thought it was this end."

"No, grandma, it's the other. I'll put your foot
on it. Are we there?" asked Fenella.

"In the harbour," said grandma. "We must get
up, child. You'd better have a biscuit to steady
yourself before you move."

but Fenella had hopped out of her bunk. The
lamp was still burning, but night was over, and it

s cold Peering through that round eye, she
177

THE VOYAGE

could see far off some rocks. Now they were scat-
tered over with foam; now a gull flipped by; and
now there came a long piece of real land.

"It's land, grandma," said Fenella, wonderingly,
as though they had been at sea for weeks together.
She hugged herself; she stood on one leg and rubbed
it with the toes of the other foot; she was trembling,
Oh, it had all been so sad lately. Was it going to
change? But all her grandma said was, "Make
haste, child. I should leave your nice banana for
the stewardess as you haven't eaten it." And
Fenella put on her black clothes again, and a button
sprang off one of her gloves and rolled to where she
couldn't reach it. They went up on deck.

But if it had been cold in the cabin, on deck it was
like .ice. The sun was not up yet, but the stars were
dim, and the cold pale sky was the same colour as
the cold pale sea. On the land a white mist rose
and fell. Now they could see quite plainly dark
bush. Even the shapes of the umbrella ferns
showed, and those strange silvery withered trees
that are like skeletons. . . . Now they could see
the landing-stage and some little houses, pale too,
clustered together, like shells on the lid of a box.
The other passengers tramped up and down, but
more slowly than they had the night before, and they
looked gloomy.

And now the landing-stage came out to meet them.
Slowly it swam towards the Picton boat, and a man
holding a coil of rope, and a cart with a small droop-

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THE VOYAGE

ing horse and another man sitting on the step, came
too.

"It's Mr. Penreddy, Fenella, come for us," said
grandma. She sounded pleased. Her white waxen
cheeks were blue with cold, her chin trembled, and
she had to keep wiping her eyes and her little pink
nose.

"You've got my "

"Yes, grandma." Fenella showed it to her.

The rope came flying through the air, and
"smack" it fell on to the deck. The gangway was
lowered. Again Fenella followed her grandma on
to the wharf over to the little cart, ami a moment
later they were bowling away. The hooves of the
little horse drummed over the wooden piles, then
sank softly into the sandy road. Not a soul was
to be seen; there was not even a feather of smoke.
The mist rose and fell, and the sea still sounded
asleep as slowly it turned on the beach.

"I seen Mr. Crane yestiddy," said Mr. Penreddy.
"He looked himself then. Missus knocked him up
a batch of scones last week."

And now the little horse pulled up before one of
the shell-like houses. They got down. Fenella put
her hand on the gate, and the big, trembling dew-
drops soaked through her glove-tips. Up a little
path of round white pebbles they went, with
drenched sleeping flowers on either side. Grand-
ma's delicate white picotees were so heavy with dew
that they were fallen, but their sweet smell was part

179

THE VOYAGE

of the cold morning. The blinds were down in the
little house; they mounted the steps on to the ver-
anda. A pair of old bluchers was on one side of
the door, and a large red watering-can on the other.

"Tut! tut! Your grandpa," said grandma. She
turned the handle. Not a sound. She called,
"Walter!" And immediately a deep voice that
sounded half stifled called back, "Is that you,
Mary?"

"Wait, dear," said grandma. "Go in there."
She pushed Fenella gently into a small dusky sitting-
room.

On the table a white cat, that had been folded
up like a camel, rose, stretched itself, yawned, and
then sprang on to the tips of its toes. Fenella
buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur,
and smiled timidly while she stroked and listened to
grandma's gentle voice and the rolling tones of
grandpa.

A door creaked. "Come in, dear." The old
woman beckoned, Fenella followed. There, lying
to one side of an immense bed, lay grandpa. Just
his head with a white tuft, and his rosy face and long
silver beard showed over the quilt. He was like a
very old wide-awake bird.

"Well, my girl!" said grandpa. "Give us a
kiss!" Fenella kissed him. "Ugh!" said grandpa.
"Her little nose is as cold as a button. What's that
she's holding? Her grandma's umbrella?"

Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck
1 80

THE VOYAGE

over the bed-rail. Above the bed there was a big
text in a deep-black frame: —

Lost! One Golden Hour

Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes.

No Reward Is Offered

For It Is Gone For Ever I

"Yer grandma painted that," said grandpa. And
he ruffled his white tuft and looked at Fenella so
merrily she almost thought he winked at her.

181

MISS BRILL

ALTHOUGH it was so brilliantly fine — the
blue sky powdered with gold and great
spots of light like white wine splashed over
the Jardins Publiques — Miss Brill was glad that she
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless,
but when you opened your mouth there was just a
faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water
before you sip, and now and again a leaf came
drifting — from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill
put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little
thing ! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken
it out of its box {hat afternoon, shaken out the moth-
powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life
back into the dim little eyes. "What has been hap-
pening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how
sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the
red eiderdown! . . . But the nose, which was of
some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must
have had a knock, somehow. Never mind — a little
dab of black sealing-wax when the time came — when
it was absolutely necessary. . . . Little rogue!
Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue
biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have
taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it.
She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that

182

MISS

came from walking, she supposed. And when she
breathed, something light and sad — no, not sad,
exactly — something gentle seemed to move in her
bosom.

There were a number of people out this after-
noon, far more than last Sunday. And the band
sounded louder and gayer. That was because the
Season had begun. For although the band played
all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was
never the same. It was like some one playing with
only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played
if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the
conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure
it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped
his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bands-
men sitting in the green rotunda blew out their
cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came
a little "flutey" bit — very pretty! — a little chain of
bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated.
It was; she lifted her head and smiled.

Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine
old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a
huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman,
sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her em'
broidered apron. They did not speak. This was
disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked for-
ward to the conversation. She had become really
quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she
didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just
fcr a minute while they talked round her.

183

Miss BRILL

She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Per-
haps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't
been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and
his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she
button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time
about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew
she needed them; but that it was no good getting
any; they'd be sure to break and they'd never keep
on. And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested
everything — gold rims, the kind that curved round
your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, noth-
ing would please her. "They'll always be sliding
down my nose !" Miss Brill had wanted to shake
her.

The old people sat on the bench, still as statues.
Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch.
To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the band
rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped
to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from
the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the rail-
ings. Little children ran among them, swooping and
laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under
their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed
up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny stag-
gerer came suddenly rocking into the open from un-
der the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down,
"flop," until its small high-stepping mother, like *a
young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other
people sat on the benches and green chairs, but th'ey
were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday,

184

Miss BRILL

and — Miss Brill had often noticed — there was
something funny about nearly all of them. They
were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way
they stared they looked as though they'd just come
from dark little rooms or even — even cupboards!

Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow
leaves down drooping, and through them just a line
of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined
clouds.

Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! turn tiddley-
um turn ta ! blew the band.

Two young girls in red came by and two young
soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and
paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant
women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, lead-
ing beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale
nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along
and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy
ran after to hand them to her, and she took them
and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned.
Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to ad-
mire that or not ! And now an ermine toque and a
gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was
tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine
toque she'd bought when her hair was yellow., Now
everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was
the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand,
in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny
yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him
— delighted! She rather thought they were going

185

Miss BRILL

to meet that afternoon. She described where she'd
been — everywhere, here, there, along by the sea.
The day was so charming — didn't he agree? And
wouldn't he, perhaps? . . . But he shook his head,
lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep
puff into her face, and, even while she was still talk-
ing and laughing, flicked the match away and walked
on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more
brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to
know what she was feeling and played more softly,
played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute!
The Brute!" over and over. What would she do?
What was going to happen now? But as Miss
Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her
hand as though she'd seen some one else, much
nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the
band changed again and played more quickly, more
gaily than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's
seat got up and marched away, and such a funny
old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time
to the music and was nearly knocked over by four
girls walking abreast.

Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed
it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all!
It was like a play. It was exactly like a play.
Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't
painted? But it wasn't till a little brown dog trot-
ted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a
little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been
drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it \vas

1 86

Miss BRILL

fhat made it so exciting. They were all on the
stage. They weren't only the audience, not only
looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part
and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody
would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she
was part of the performance after all. How
strange she'd never thought of it like that before!
And yet it explained why she made such a point of
starting from home at just the same time each
week — so as not to be late for the performance —
and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy
feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent
her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill
nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage.
She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom
she read the newspaper four afternoons a week
while he slept in the garden. She had got quite
used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hol-
lowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched
nose. If he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed
bfor weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But sud-
denly he knew he was having the paper read to him
by an actress ! "An actress !" The old head
lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes.
"An actress — are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed
the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of
her part and said gently: "Yes, I have been an ac-
tress for a long time."

The band had been having a rest. Now they
started again. And what they played was warm,

187

Miss BRILL

sunny, yet there was just a faint chill — a something,,
what was it? — not sadness — no, not sadness— -a
something that made you want to sing. The tune
lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss
Brill that in another moment all of them, all the
whole company, would begin singing. The young
ones, the laughing ones who were moving together,
they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute
and brave, would join them. And then she too, she
too, and the others on the benches — they would
come in with a kind of accompaniment — something
low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so beau-
tiful— moving. . . . And Miss Brill's eyes filled
with tears and she looked smiling at all the other
members of the company. Yes, we understand, we
understand, she thought — though what they under-
stood she didn't know.

Just at that moment a boy and a girl came and sat
down where the old couple had been. They were
beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero
and heroine, of course, just arrived from his
father's yacht. And still soundlessly singing, still
with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to
listen.

"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I
can't."

"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at
the end there?" asked the boy. "Why does she
come here at all — who wants her? Why doesn't
she keep her silly old mug at home?"

188

Miss BRILL

"It's her fu-fur which is so funny," giggled the
girl. "It's exactly like a fried whiting."

"Ah, be off with you !" said the boy in an angry
whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite chere "

"No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet"

On her way home she usually bought a slice of
honey-cake at the baker's. It was her Sunday treat.
Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, some-
times not. It made a great difference. If there
was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny pres-
ent— a surprise — something that might very well
not have been there. She hurried on the almond
Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite
a dashing way.

But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the
stairs, went into the little dark room — her room
like a cupboard — and sat down on the red eider-
down. She sat there for a long time. The box
that the fur came out of was on the bed. She un-
clasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without look-
ing, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she
thought she heard something crying.

189

HER FIRST BALL

EXACTLY when the ball began Leila would
have found it hard to say. Perhaps her
first real partner was the cab. It did not
matter that she shared the cab with the Sher-
idan girls and their brother. She sat back in her
own little corner of it, and the bolster on which
her hand rested felt like the sleeve of an unknown
young man's dress suit; and away they bowled, past
waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and
trees.

"Have you really never been to a ball before,

Leila? But, my child, how too weird " cried

the Sheridan girls.

"Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles," said
Leila softly, gently opening and shutting her fan.

Oh, dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like
the others! She tried not to smile too much; she
tried not to care. But every single thing was so new
and exciting . . . Meg's tuberoses, Jose's long loop
of amber, Laura's little dark head, pushing above
her white fur like a flower through snow. She
would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang
to see her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of
tissue paper he pulled from the fastenings of his
new gloves. She would like to have kept those

190

HER FIRST BALL

wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie
leaned forward and put his hand on Laura's knee.

"Look here, darling," he said. "The third and
the ninth as usual. Twig?"

Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her
excitement Leila felt that if there had been time,
if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't have helped
crying because she was an only child, and no brother
had ever said "Twig?" to her; no sister would ever
say, as Meg said to Jose that moment, "I've never
known your hair go up more successfully than it
has to-night!"

But, of course, there was no time. They were at
the drill hall already; there were cabs in front of
them and cabs behind. The road was bright on
either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the
pavement gay couples seemed to float through the
air; little satin shoes chased each other like birds.

"Hold on to me, Leila; you'll get lost," said
Laura.

"Come on, girls, let's make a dash for it," said
Laurie.

Leila put two fingers on Laura's pink velvet
cloak, and they were somehow lifted past the big
golden lantern, carried along the passage, and
pushed into the little room marked "Ladies."
Here the crowd was so great there was hardly
space to take off their things; the noise was deafen-
ing., Two benches on either side were stacked high
with wraps. Two old women in white aprons ran

191

HER FIRST BALL

up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And every-
body was pressing forward trying to get at the little
dressing-table and mirror at the far end.

A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies'
room. It couldn't wait; it was dancing already.
When the door opened again and there came a
burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost
to the ceiling.

Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair,
tying ribbons again, tucking handkerchiefs down
the fronts of their bodices, smoothing marble-white
gloves. And because they were all laughing it
seemed to Leila that they were all lovely.

"Aren't there any invisible hair-pins?" cried a
voice. "How most extraordinary! I can't see a
single invisible hair-pin."

"Powder my back, there's a darling," cried some
one else.

"But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn
simply miles and miles of the frill," wailed a third.

Then, "Pass them along, pass them along!"
The straw basket of programmes was tossed from
arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver pro*
grammes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels.
Leila's fingers shook as she took one out of the bas-
ket. She wanted to ask some one, "Am I meant to
have one too?" but she had just time to read:
"Waltz 3. Two, Two in a Canoe. Polka 4. Mak-
ing the Feathers Fly," when Meg cried, "Ready,
Leila?" and they pressed their way through the

192

HER FIRST BALL

crush in the passage towards the big double doors
of the drill hall.

Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had
stopped tuning, and the noise was so great it seemed
that when it did begin to play it would never be
heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over
Meg's shoulder, felt that even the little quivering
coloured flags strung across the ceiling were talking.
She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot how in the
middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with
one shoe off and one shoe on and begged her mother
to ring up her cousins and say she couldn't go after
all. And the rush of longing she had had to be sit-
ting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country
home, listening to the baby owls crying "More pork"
in the moonlight, was changed to a rush of joy so
sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched
her fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor,
the azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with
its red carpet and gilt chairs and the band in a
corner, she thought breathlessly, "How heavenly;
how simply heavenly!"

All the girls stood grouped together at 'one side
of the doors, the men at the other, and the chaper-
ones in dark dresses, smiling rather foolishly,
walked with little careful steps over the polished
floor towards the stage.

"This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice
to her. Find her partners; she's under my wing,"
said Meg, going up to one girl after another.

HER FIRST BALL

Strange faces smiled at Leila — sweetly, vaguely.
Strange voices answered, "Of course, my dear."
But Leila felt the girls didn't really see her. They
were looking towards the men. Why didn't the
men begin? What were they waiting for? There
they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their
glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then,
quite suddenly, as if they had only just made up their
minds that that was what they had to do, the men
came gliding over the parquet. There was a joyful
flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to
Meg, seized her programme, scribbled something;
Meg passed him on to Leila. "May I have the
pleasure?" He ducked and smiled. There came
a dark man wearing an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie
with a friend, and Laura with a little freckled fellow
whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man —
fat, with a big bald patch on his head — took her
programme and murmured, "Let me see, let me
see!" And he was a long time comparing his pro-
gramme, which looked black with names, with hers.
It seemed to give him so much trouble that Leila was
ashamed. "Oh, please don't bother," she said
eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote
something, glanced at her again. "Do I remember
this bright little face?" he said softly. "Is it
known to me of yore?" At that moment the band
began playing; the fat man disappeared. He was
tossed away on a great wave of music that came
flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the growos

194

HER FIRST BALL

up into couples, scattering them, sending them spin-
ning. . . .

Leila had learned to dance at boarding school.
Every Saturday afternoon the boarders were hur-
ried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall where
Miss Eccles (of London) held her "select" classes.
But the difference between that dusty-smelling hall
— with calico texts on the walls, the poor terrified
little woman in a brown velvet toque with rabbit's
ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking
the girls' feet with her long white wand— and this
was so tremendous that Leila was sure if her partner
didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellous
music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over
the golden floor, she would die at least, or faint,
or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark
windows that showed the stars.

"Ours, I think " Some one bowed, smiled,

and offered her his arm; she hadn't to die after all.
Some one's hand pressed her waist, and she floated
away like a flower that is tossed into a pool.

"Quite a good floor, isn't it?" drawled a faint
voice close to her ear.

"I think it's most beautifully slippery," said Leila.

"Pardon!" The faint voice sounded surprised.
Leila said it again. And there was a tiny pause
before the voice echoed, "Oh, quite!" and she was
swung round again.

He steered so beautifully. That was the great
difference between dancing with girls and men, Leila

195

HER FIRST BALL

decided. Girls banged into each other, and stamped
on each other's feet; the girl who was gentleman
always clutched you so.

The azaleas were separate flowers no longer;
they were pink and white flags streaming by.

"Were you at the Bells' last week?" the voice
came again. It sounded tired. Leila wondered
whether she ought to ask him if he would like to
stop.

"No, this is my first dance," said she.

Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. "Oh,
I say," he protested.

"Yes, it is really the first dance I've ever been to."
Leila was most fervent. It was such a relief to be
able to tell somebody. "You see, I've lived in the
country all my life up until now. . . ."

At that moment the music stopped, and they went
to sit on two chairs against the wall. Leila tucked
her pink satin feet under and fanned herself, while
she blissfully watched the other couples passing and
disappearing through the swing doors.

"Enjoying yourself, Leila?" asked Jose, nodding
her golden head.

Laura passed and gave her the faintest little
wink; it made Leila wonder for a moment whether
she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her
partner did not say very much. He coughed,
tucked his handkerchief away, pulled down his waist-
coat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But it
didn't matter. Almost immediately the band

196

HER FIRST BALL

started, and her second partner seemed to spring
from the ceiling.

"Floor's not bad," said the new voice. Did one
always begin with the floor? And then, "Were
you at the Neaves' on Tuesday?" And again Leila
explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her
partners were not more interested. For it was
thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at the
beginning of everything.. It seemed to her that she
had never known what the night was like before.
Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very
often — oh, yes — but mournful somehow. Solemn.
And now it would never be like that again — it had
opened dazzling bright.

"Care for an ice?" said her partner. And they
went through the swing doors, down the passage,
to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was
fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on
little glass plates, and how cold the frosted spoon
was, iced too ! And when they came back to the
hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the
door. It gave her quite a shock again to see how
old he was; he ought to have been on the stage with
the fathers and mothers. And when Leila com-
pared him with her other partners he looked shabby.
His waistcoat was creased, there was a button off
his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with
French chalk.

"Come along, little lady," said the fat man. He
scarcely troubled to clasp her, and they moved away

197

HER FIRST BALL

so gently, it was more like walking than dancing.
But he said not a word about the floor. "Your first
dance, isn't it?" he murmured.

"How did you know?"

"Ah," said the fat man, "that's what it is to be
old!" He wheezed faintly as he steered her past
an awkward couple. "You see, I've been doing this
kind of thing for the last thirty years."

"Thirty years?" cried Leila. Twelve years be-
fore she was born !

"It hardly bears thinking about, does it?" said
the fat man gloomily. Leila looked at his bald
head, and she felt quite sorry for him.

"I think it's marvellous to be still going on," she
said kindly.

"Kind little lady," said the fat man, and he
pressed her a little closer, and hummed a bar of the
waltz. "Of course," he said, "you can't hope to
last anything like as long as that. No-o," said the
fat man, "long before that you'll be sitting up there
on the stage, looking on, in your nice black velvet.
And these pretty arms will have turned into little
short fat ones, and you'll beat time with such a differ-
ent kind of fan — a black bony one." The fat man
seemed to shudder. "And you'll smile away like the
poor old dears up there, and point to your daughter,
and tell the elderly lady next to you how some
dreadful man trl^d to kiss her at the club ball. And
3^our heart will ache, ache" — the fat man squeezed
her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that

198

HER FIRST BALL

poor heart — "because no one wants to kiss you now.
And you'll say how unpleasant these polished floors
are to walk on, how dangerous they are. Eh,
Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?" said the fat man
softly.

Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not
feel like laughing. Was it — could it all be true?
It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball only the
beginning of her last ball after all? At that the
music seemed to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose
upon a great sigh. Oh, how quickly things
changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever?
For ever wasn't a bit too long.

"I want to stop," she said in a breathless voice.
The fat man led her to the door.

"No," she said, "I won't go outside. I won't
sit down. I'll just stand here, thank you." She
leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, pull-
ing up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep in-
side her a little girl threw her pinafore over her
head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it all?

"I say, you know," said the fat man, "you mustn't
take me seriously, little lady."

"As if I should!" said Leila, tossing her small
dark head and sucking her underlip. . . .

Again the couples paraded. The swing doors
opened and shut. Now new music was given out
by the bandmaster. But Leila didn't want to dance
any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on
the veranda listening to those baby owls. When

199

HER FIRST BALL

she looked through the dark windows at the stars,
they had long beams like wings. . . .

But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune
began, and a young man with curly hair bowed be-
fore her. She would have to dance, out of polite-
ness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she
walked into the middle; very haughtily she put her
hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn,
her feet glided, glided. The lights, the- azaleas,
the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all be-
came one beautiful flying wheel. And when her
next partner bumped her into the fat man and he
said, "Pardon," she smiled at him more radiantly
than ever. She didn't even recognize him again.

2OO

THE SINGING LESSON

WITH despair — cold, sharp despair —
buried deep in her heart like a wicked
knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown
and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors
that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy
from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful
excitement that comes from running to school on a
fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by;
from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drum-
ming of voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried,
"Muriel." And then there came from the stair-
case a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some
one had dropped her dumbbells.

The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.

"Good mor-ning," she cried, in her sweet, affected
drawl. "Isn't it cold? It might be win-ter."

Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in
hatred at the Science Mistress. Everything about
her was sweet, pale, like honey. You would not
have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles
of that yellow hair.

"It is rather sharp," said Miss Meadows, grimly.

The other smiled her sugary smile.

"You look fro-zen," said she. Her blue eyes
20 1

THE SINGING LESSON

opened wide; there came a mocking light in them.
(Had she noticed anything?)

"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Miss
Meadows, an,d she gave the Science Mistress, in ex-
change for her smile, a quick grimace and passed
on. . . .

Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the
music hall. The noise was deafening. On the
platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss
Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments.
She was turning the music stool. When she saw
Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-shl
girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in
her sleeves, the baton under her arm, strode down
the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned sharply,
seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of
her, and gave two sharp taps with her baton for
silence.

"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at
nobody, her glance swept over that sea of coloured
flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and hands,
quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books out-
spread. She knew perfectly well what they were
thinking. "Meady is in a wax." Well, let them
think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her
head, defying them. What could the thoughts of
those creatures matter to some one who stood there
bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart,
by such a letter

... "I feel more and more strongly that our
2O2

THE SINGING LESSON

marriage would be a mistake. Not that I do not
love you. I love you as much as it is possible for
me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have
come to the conclusion that I am not a marrying
man, and the idea of settling down fills me with noth-
ing but " and the word "disgust" was

scratched out lightly and "regret" written over the
top.

Basil ! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano.
And Mary Beazley, who was waiting for this mo-
ment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks
while she breathed, "Good morning, Miss
Meadows," and she motioned towards rather than
handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow chrysan-
themum. This little ritual of the flower had been
gone through for ages and ages, quite a term and a
half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening
the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it
up, instead of tucking it into her belt while she
leant over Mary and said, "Thank you, Mary.
How very nice ! Turn to page thirty-two," what
was Mary's horror when Miss Meadows totally ig-
nored the chrysanthemum, made no reply to* her
greeting, but said in a voice of ice, "Page fourteen,
please, and mark the accents well."

Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the
tears stood in her eyes, but Miss Meadows was
gone back to the music stand; her voice rang
through the music hall.

"Page fourteen. We will begin with page four-
203

THE SINGING LESSON

teen. 'A Lament.' Now, girls, you ought to
know it by this time. We shall take it all together;
not in parts, all together. And without expression.
Sing it, though, quite simply, beating time with the
left hand."

She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand
twice. Down came Mary on the opening chord;
down came all those left hands, beating the air, and
in chimed those young, mournful voices : —

Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;

Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.

Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure

Passes away from the Listening Ear.

Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than
that lament ! Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan
of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her
arms in the wide gown and began conducting with
both hands. "... I feel more and more
strongly that our marriage would be a mis-
take. . . ." she beat. And the voices cried:
Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly. What could have possessed
him to write such a letter! What could have led
up to it! It came out of nothing. His last letter
had been all about a fumed-oak bookcase he had
bought for "our" books, and a "natty little hall-
stand" he had seen, "a very neat affair with a carved
owl on a bracket, holding three hat-brushes in its
claws." How she had smiled at that! So like a

204

THE SINGING LESSON

man to think one needed three hat-brushes ! From
the Listening Ear, sang the voices.

"Once again," said Miss Meadows. "But this
time in parts. Still without expression." Fast!
Ah, too Fast. With the gloom of the contraltos
added, one could scarcely help shuddering. Fade
the Roses of Pleasure. Last time he had come to
see her, Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole.
How handsome he had looked in that bright blue
suit, with that dark red rose ! And he knew it, too.
He couldn't help knowing it. First he stroked his
hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when

he smiled.
<•"

"The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me to
dinner. It's a perfect nuisance. I never get an
evening to myself in that place."

"But can't you refuse?"

"Oh, well, it doesn't do for a man in my position
to be unpopular."

Music's Gay Measure, wailed the voices. The
willow trees, outside the high, narrow windows,
waved in the wind. They had lost half their leaves.
The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught
on a line. "... I am not a marrying man. . . ."
The voices were silent; the piano waited.

"Quite good," said Miss Meadows, but still in
such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls be-
gan to feel positively frightened. "But now that
we know it, we shall take it with expression. As

205

THE SINGING LESSON

much expression as you can put into it. Think of
the words, girls. Use your imaginations. Fast!
Ah, too Fast," cried Miss Meadows. "That ought
to break out — a loud, strong forte — a lament. And
then in the second line, Winter Drear, make that
Drear sound as if a cold wind were blowing through
it. Dre-earf" said she so awfully that Mary Beaz-
ley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. "The
third line should be one crescendo. Fleetly! Ah,
Fleetly Music's Gay Measure. Breaking on the
first word of the last line, Passes. And then on the
word, Away, you must begin to die ... to fade
. . . until The Listening Ear is nothing more
than a faint whisper. . . . You can slow down as
much as you like almost on the last line. Now,
please."

Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms
again. Fast! Ah, too Fast. ". . . and the idea
of settling down fills me with nothing but dis-
gust " Disgust was what he had written.

That was as good as to say their engagement was
definitely broken off. Broken off! Their engage-
ment! People had been surprised enough that she
had got engaged. The Science Mistress would not
believe it at first. But nobody had been as surprised
as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It
had been a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him
say, as they walked home from church that very
dark night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got
fond of you." And he had taken hold of the end

206

THE SINGING LESSON

of her ostrich feather boa. Passes away from the
Listening Ear.

"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows. "More
expession, girls ! Once more !"

Fast! Ah, too Fast. The older girls were crim-
son; some of the younger ones began to cry. Big
spots of rain blew against the windows, and one
could hear the willows whispering, ". . . not that
I do not love you. . . ."

"But, my darling, if you love me," thought Miss
Meadows, "I don't mind how much it is. Love me
as little as you like." But she knew he didn't love
her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that
word "disgust," so that she couldn't read it! Soon
Autumn yields unto Winter Drear. She would
have to leave the school, too. She could never face
the Science Mistress or the girls after it got known.
She would have to disappear somewhere. Passes
away. The voices began to die, to fade, to whisper
... to vanish. . . .

Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue
walked fussily up the aisle, hanging her head, biting
her lips, and twisting the silver bangle on her red
little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before
Miss Meadows.

"Well, Monica, what is it?"

"Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows," said the
little girl, gasping, "Miss Wyatt wants to see you
in the mistress's room."

"Very well," said Miss Meadows. And she
207

THE SINGING LESSON

called to the girls, "I shall put you on your honour
to talk quietly while I am away." But they
were too subdued to do anything else. Most of;
them were blowing their noses.

The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed
to Miss Meadows' steps. The head mistress sat
at her desk. For a moment she did not look up.
She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which
had got caught in her lace tie. "Sit down, Miss
Meadows," she said very kindly. And then she
picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad.
"I sent for you just now because this telegram has
come for you."

"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?"

Basil I He had committed suicide, decided Miss
Meadows. Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt
held the telegram back a moment. "I hope it's not
bad news," she said, so more than kindly. And
Miss Meadows tore it open.

"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad,
bought hat-stand to-day — Basil," she read. She
couldn't take her eyes off the telegram.

"I do hope it's nothing very serious," said Miss
Wyatt, leaning forward.

"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt," blushed Miss
Meadows. "It's nothing bad at all. It's" — and
she gave an apologetic little laugh — "it's from my

fiance saying that . . . saying that " There

was a pause. "I see," said Miss Wyatt. And an-
other pause. Then "You've fifteen minutes

208

THE SINGING LESSON

more of your class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?"

"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She half ran
towards the door.

"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows," said Miss
Wyatt. "I must say I don't approve of my teachers
having telegrams sent to them in school hours, unless
in case of very bad news, such as death," explained
Miss Wyatt, "or a very serious accident, or some-
thing to that effect. Good news, Miss Meadows,
will always keep, you know."

On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss
Meadows sped back to the music hall, up the aisle,
up the steps, over to the piano.

"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said, "page thirty-
two," and, picking up the yellow chrysanthemum,
she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she
turned to the girls, rapped with her baton : "Page
thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two."

We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen,
With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
To-oo Congratulate. . . .

"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is
awful. This is dreadful." And she beamed at her
girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think,
girls, think of what you're singing. Use your im-
aginations. With Flowers o'erladen. Baskets of
Fruit and Ribbons to boot. And Congratulate"
Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful,
girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager,

209

THE SINGING LESSON

Congratulate. Once more. Quickly. All together.
Now then !"

And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over
all the other voices — full, deep, glowing with ex-
pression.,

210

IT seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that
she was never going to move again. There
she lay, immense, motionless on the grey
crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an im-
mense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the
galley droppings at the stern. You could just see
little couples parading — little flies walking up and
down the dish on the grey crinkled tablecloth.
Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge.
Vow there was a gleam of white on the lower deck
— the cook's apron or the stewardess perhaps.
Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to
the bridge.

In the front of the crowd a strong-looking,
middle-aged man, dressed very well, very snugly in
a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and
dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his
folded umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the
little crowd on the wharf and at the same time to
keep them together. He was something between
the sheep-dog and the shepherd.

But what a fool — what a fool he had been not to
bring any glasses! There wasn't a pair of glasses
between the whole lot of them.

"Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us
211

THE STRANGER

thought of glasses. We might have been able to
stir 'em up a bit. We might have managed a little
signalling. Don't hesitate to land. Natives harm-
less. Or: A welcome awaits you. All Is forgiven.
What? Eh?"

Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous
and yet so friendly and confiding, took in everybody
on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps loung-
ing against the gangways. They knew, every man-
jack of them, that Mrs. Hammond was on that
boat, and he was so tremendously excited it never
entered his head not to believe that this marvellous
fact meant something to them too. It warmed his
heart towards them. They were, he decided, as

decent a crowd of people Those old chaps

over by the gangways, too — fine, solid old chaps.
What chests — by Jove ! And he squared his own,
plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets,
rocked from heel to toe.

"Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten
months. On a visit to our eldest girl, who was
married last year. I brought her up here, as far
as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I'd better come
and fetch her back. Yes, yes, yes." The shrewd
grey eyes narrowed again and searched anxiously,
quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat
was unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow
watch again, and for the twentieth — fiftieth — hun-
dredth time he made the calculation.

"Let me see, now. It was two fifteen when the
212

THE STRANGER

doctor's launch went off. Two fifteen. It is now
exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is to
say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen
minutes. Two hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-
ooh!" He gave a queer little half-whistle and
snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should
have been told if there was anything up — don't you,
Mr. Gaven?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think there's
anything to — anything to worry about," said Mr.
Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of his
shoe. "At the same time "

"Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr. Hammond.
"Dashed annoying!" He paced quickly up and
down and came back again to his stand between Mr.
and Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. "It's getting quite
dark, too," and he waved his folded umbrella as
though the dusk at least might have had the decency
to keep off for a bit., But the dusk came slowly,
spreading like a slow stain over the water. Little
Jean Scott dragged at her mother's hand.

"I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed.

"I expect you do," said Mr. Hammond. "I ex-
pect all these ladies want their tea." And his kind,
flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in again.
He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup
of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so; he
thought not. It would be just like her not to leave
the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward
would bring her up a cup. If he'd been there he'd

THE STRANGER

have got it for her — somehow. And for a moment
he was on deck, standing over her, watching her
little hand fold round the cup in the way she had,
while she drank the only cup of tea to be got on
board. . . . But now he was back here, and the
Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would
stop hanging about in the stream. He took another
turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as
far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn't
disappeared; back he swerved again to the little
flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates.
Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor
little beggar ! He wished he had a bit of chocolate
on him.

"Here, Jean !" he said. "Like a lift up ?" And
easily, gently, he swung the little girl on to a higher
barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying
her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart.

"Hold on," he said, keeping an arm round her.

"Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond!"
said Mrs. Scott.

"That's all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It's
a pleasure. Jean's a little pal of mine, aren't you,
Jean?"

"Yes, Mr. Hammond," said Jean, and she ran her
finger down the dent of his felt hat.

But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave
a loud scream. "Lo-ok, Mr. Hammond! She's
moving! Look, she's coming in!"

By Jove 1 So she was. At last ! She was
214

THE STRANGER

slowly, slowly turning round. A bell sounded far
over the water and a great spout of steam gushed
into the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away
like bits of white paper. And whether that deep
throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. Ham-
mond couldn't say. He had to nerve himself to
bear it, whatever it was. At that moment old Cap-
tain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding
down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm.

"Jean'll be all right," said Mr. Scott. "I'll hold
her." He was just in time. Mr. Hammond had
forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet
old Captain Johnson.

"Well, Captain," the eager, nervous voice rang
out again, "you've taken pity on us at last."

"It's no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond,"
wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner.
"You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain't yen?"

"Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept by the
harbour-master's side. "Mrs. Hammond's there.
Hul-lo ! We shan't be long now !"

With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her
screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them,
cutting sharp through the dark water so that big
white shavings curled to either side. Hammond
and the harbour-master kept in front of the rest.
Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks — they
were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat
and bawled a loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the
water; and then turned round and burst out laugh*

215

THE STRANGER

ing and said something — nothing — to old Captain
Johnson.

"Seen her?" asked the harbour-master.

"No, not yet. Steady — wait a bit!" And su
denly, between two great clumsy idiots — "Get out o
the way there!" he signed with his umbrella — h
saw a hand raised — a white glove shaking a han
kerchief. Another moment, and — thank Go
thank God! — there she was. There was Janey
There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes — standin
by the rail and smiling and nodding and waving he
handkerchief.

"Well, that's first class — first class ! Well, wel
well!" He positively stamped. Like lightning h
drew out his cigar-case and offered it to old Captai
Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain! They'r
pretty good. Have a couple! Here" — and h
pressed all the cigars in the case on the harbour
master — "I've a couple of boxes up at the hotel."

"Thenks, Mr. Hammond!" wheezed old Captai
Johnson.

Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. Hi
hands were shaking, but he'd got hold of himsel
again. He was able to face Janey. There she wa
leaning on the rail, talking tc some woman and a
the same time watching him^ ready for him. I
struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how sma
she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrun
with such a spasm that he could have cried ou
How little she looked to have come all that long

216

THE STRANGER

way and back by herself! Just like her, though.

Just like Janey. She had the courage of a

And now the crew had come forward and parted
the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the
gangways.

The voices on shore and the voices on board flew
lo greet each other.

"All well?"

"All well."

"How's mother?"

"Much better."

"Hullo, Jean!"

"Hillo, Aun' Emily!"

"Had a good voyage?"

"Splendid!"

"Shan't be long now!"

"Not long now."

The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the
,'harf-side.

'Make way there — make way — make way I"
the wharf hands brought the heavy gangways
along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to
Janey to stay where she was. The old harbour-
master stepped forward ; he followed. As to "ladies
first," or any rot like that, it never entered his head.

"After you, Captain!" he cried genially. And,
treading on the old man's heels, he strode up the
gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, and
Janey was clasped in his arms.

"Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at
217

THE STRANGER

last!" he stammered. It was all he could
And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice-
only voice in the world for him — said,

"Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?

No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn't matte
It was over now. But the point was, he had a c
waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she read
to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case
they could cut off sharp with her cabin luggage and
let the rest go hang until to-morrow. He bent over
her and she looked up with her familar half-smile.
She was just the same. Not a day changed. Ju
as he'd always known her. She laid her small han
on his sleeve.
^"How are the children, John?" she asked.

(Hang the children!) "Perfectly well. Nev
better in their lives."

"Haven't they sent me letters?"

"Yes, yes — of course ! I've left them at the hotel
for you to digest later on."

"We can't go quite so fast," said she. "I've
got people to say good-bye to — and then there's
the Captain." As his face fell she gave his arm a
small understanding squeeze. "If the Captaip
comes off the bridge I want you to thank him for
having looked after your wife so beautifully.1
Well, he'd got her. If she wanted another ten min-
utes As he gave way she was surrounded.

The whole first-class seemed to want to say good-
bye to Janey.i

218

THE STRANGER

"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Hammond! And next
time you're in Sydney I'll expect you."

"Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won't forget
to write to me, will you?"

"Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would
have been without you !"

It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far
the most popular woman on board. And she took
it all — just as usual. Absolutely composed. Just
her little self — just Janey all over; standing there
with her veil thrown back. Hammond never
noticed what his wife had on. It was all the same
to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did
lotice that she wore a black "costume" — didn't
they call it? — with white frills, trimmings he sup-
>osed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this
ile Janey handed him round.
"John, dear !" And then : "I want to introduce

rou to "

Finally they did escape, and she led the way to
icr state-room. To follow Janey down the pas-
sage that she knew so well — that was so strange to
lim; to part the green curtains after her and to step
into the cabin that had been hers gave him exquisite
lappiness. But — confound it! — the stewardess
s there on the floor, strapping up the rugs.
"That's the last, Mrs. Hammond," said the
stewardess, rising and pulling down her cuffs.

He was introduced again, and then Janey and the
stewardess disappeared into the passage. He

219

THE STRANGER

heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping
business over, he supposed. He sat down on the
striped sofa and took his hat off. There were the
rugs she had taken with her; they looked good as
new. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The
labels were written in her beautiful little clear hand
— " Mrs. John Hammond."

"Mrs. John Hammond!" He gave a long sigh
of content and leaned back, crossing his arms.
The strain was over. He felt he could have sat
there for ever sighing his relief — the relief at being
rid of that horrible tug, pull, grip on his heart.
The danger was over. That was the feeling.
They were on dry land again.

But at that moment Janey's head came round the
corner.

"Darling — do you mind? I just want to go and
say good-bye to the doctor."

Hammond started up. "I'll come with you.",

"No, no!" she said. "Don't bother. I'd rather
not. I'll not be a minute."

And before he could answer she was gone. He
had half a mind to run after her; but instead he sat
down again.

Would she really not be long? What was the
time now? Out came the watch; he stared at noth-
ing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn't it?
Wliy couldn't she have told the stewardess to say
good-bye for her? Why did she have to go chas-
ing after the ship's doctor? She could have sent

220

THE STRANGER

a note from the hotel even if the affair had been
urgent. Urgent? Did it — could it mean that she
had been ill on the voyage — she was keeping some-
thing from him? That was it! He seized his hat.
He was going off to find that fellow and to wring
the truth out of him at all costs. He thought he'd
noticed just something. She was just a touch too
calm — too steady. From the very first mo-
ment

The curtains rang. Janey was back. He
jumped to his feet.

"Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You
have!" '

"I'll?" Her airy little voice mocked him. She
stepped over the rugs, and came up close, touched
his breast, and looked up at him.

"Darling," she said, "don't frighten me. Of
course I haven't! Whatever makes you think I
have? Do I look ill?"

But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that
she was looking at him and that there was no need
to worry about anything. She was here to look
after things. It was all right. Everything was.

The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming
that he put his over hers to hold it there. And
she said:

"Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven't
seen you yet. You've had your beard beautifully
trimmed, and you look — younger, I think, and de-
cidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you."

221

THE STRANGER

"Agrees with me!" He groaned for love and
caught her close again. And again, as always, he
had the feeling he was holding something that never
was quite his — his. Something too delicate, too
precious, that would fly away once he let go.

"For God's sake let's get off to the hotel so that
we can be by ourselves!" And he rang the bell
hard for some one to look sharp with the luggage.

Walking down the wharf together she took his
arm. He had her on his arm again. And the
difference it made to get into the cab after Janey —
to throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round
them both — to tell the driver to hurry because
neither of them had had any tea. No more going
without his tea or pouring out his own. She was
back. He turned to her, squeezed her hand, and
said gently, teasingly, in the "special" voice he had
for her: "Glad to be home again, dearie?" She
smiled; she didn't even bother to answer, but gently
she drew his hand away as they came to the brighter
streets.

"We've got the best room in the hotel," he said.
"I wouldn't be put off with another. And I asked
the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in case you
felt chilly. She's a nice, attentive girl. And I
thought now we were here we wouldn't bother to go
home to-morrow, but spend the day looking round
and leave the morning after. Does that suit you?

222

THE STRANGER

There's no hurry, is there ? The children will have
you soon enough. ... I thought a day's sight-see-
ing might make a nice break in your journey — eh,
Janey?"

"Have you taken the tickets for the day after?"
she asked.

"I should think I have !" He unbuttoned his
overcoat and took out his bulging pocket-book.
"Here we are ! I reserved a first-class carriage to
Cooktown. There it is — 'Mr. and Mrs. John
Hammond.' I thought we might as well do our-
selves comfortably, and we don't want other people
butting in, do we? But if you'd like to stop here a
bit longer ?"

"Oh, no!" said Janey quickly. "Not for th;
world! The day after to-morrow, then. And the
children "

But they had reached the hotel. The manager
was standing in the broad, brilliantly-lighted porch.
He came down to greet them. A porter ran from
the hall for their boxes.

"Well, Mr. Arnold, here's Mrs. Hammond at
last!"

The manager led them through the hall him-
self and pressed the elevator-bell. Hammond knew
there were business pals of his sitting at the little
hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he
wasn't going to risk interruption; he looked
neither to the right nor the left. They could think
what they pleased. If they didn't understand, the

223

THE STRANGER

more fools they — and he stepped out of the lift,
unlocked the door of their room, and shepherded
Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were
alone together., He turned up the light. The cur-
tains were drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his
hat on to the huge bed and went towards her.

But — would you believe it! — again they were in»
terrupted. This time it was the porter with the
luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving
the door open in between, taking his time, whis-
tling through his teeth in the corridor. Hammond
paced up and down the room, tearing off his gloves,
tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat
on to the bedside.

At last the fool was gone. The door clicked.
Now they were alone. Said Hammond: "I feel I'll
never have you to myself again. These cursed
people! Janey" — and he bent his flushed, eager
gaze upon her — "let's have dinner up here. If we
go down to the restaurant we'll be interrupted, and
then there's the confounded music" (the music he'd
praised so highly, applauded so loudly last night!).
"We shan't be able to hear each other speak. Let's
have something up here in front of the fire. It's
too late for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I?
How does that idea strike you?"

"Do, darling!" said Janey. "And while you're
away — the children's letters "

"Oh, later on will do !" said Hammond.
224

THE STRANGER

"But then we'd get it over," said Janey. "And
I'd first have time to "

"Oh, I needn't go down!" explained Hammond.
"I'll just ring and give the order . . . you don't
want to send me away, do you?"

Janey shook her head and smiled.

"But you're thinking of something else. You're
worrying about something," said Hammond.
"What is it? Come and sit here — come and sit on
my knee before the fire."

"I'll just unpin my hat," said Janey, and she went
over to the dressing-table. "A-ah!" She gave a.
little cry.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, darling. I've just found the chil-
dren's letters. That's all right! They will keep.
No hurry now!" She turned to him, clasping
them. She tucked them into her frilled blouse.
She cried quickly, gaily: "Oh, how typical this dress-
ing-table is of you !"

"Why? What's the matter with it?" said Ham-
mond.

"If it were floating in eternity I should say
'John!'" laughed Janey, staring at the big bottle
of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of eau-de-Cologne,
the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied
with pink tape. "Is this all your luggage?"

"Hang my luggage!" said Hammond; but all the
same he liked being laughed at by Janey. "Let's

225

THE STRANGER

talk. Let's get down to things. Tell me" — and
as Janey perched on his knees he leaned back and
drew her into the deep, ugly chair — "tell me you're
really glad to be back, Janey."

"Yes, darling, I am glad," she said.

But just as when he embraced her he felt she
would fly away, so Hammond never knew — never
knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he
was. How could he know? Would he ever
know? Would he always have this craving — this
pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much
part of him that there wasn't any of her to escape?
He wanted to blot out everybody, everything. He
wished now he'd turned off the light. That might
have brought her nearer. And now those letters
from the children rustled in her blouse. He could
have chucked them into the fire.

"Janey," he whispered.

"Yes, dear?" She lay on his breast, but so
lightly, so remotely. Their breathing rose and fell
together.

"Janey!"

"What is it?"

"Turn to me," he whispered. A slow, deep flush
flowed into his forehead. "Kiss me, Janey! You
kiss me!"

It seemed to him there was a tiny pause — but
long enough for him to suffer torture — before her
lips touched his, firmly, lightly — kissing them as she
always kissed him, as though the kiss — how could

226

THE STRANGER

he describe it? — confirmed what they were saying,
signed the contract. But that wasn't what h6
wanted; that wasn't at all what he thirsted for.
He felt suddenly, horribly tired.

"If you knew," he said, opening his eyes, "what
it's been like — waiting to-day. I thought the boat
never would come in. There we were, hanging
about. What kept you so long?"

She made no answer. She was looking away
from him at the fire. The flames hurried — hur-
ried over the coals, flickered, fell.

"Not asleep, are you?" said Hammond, and he
jumped her up and down.

"No," she said. And then: "Don't do that,
dear. No, I was thinking. As a matter of fact,"
she said, "one of the passengers died last night — •
a man. That's what held us up. We brought him
in — I mean, he wasn't buried at sea. So, of course,
the ship's doctor and the shore doctor "

"What was it?" asked Hammond uneasily. He
hated to hear of death. He hated this to have
happened. It was, in some queer way, as though
he and Janey had met a funeral on their way to the
hotel.

"Oh, it wasn't anything in the least infectious !"
said Janey. She was speaking scarcely above her
breath. "It was heart." A pause.' "Poor fel-
low!" she said. "Quite young." And she watched
the fire flicker and fall. "He died in my arms,"
said Janey.

227

THE STRANGER

The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought
he would faint. He couldn't move; he couldn't
breathe. He felt all his strength flowing —
flowing into the big dark chair, and the big dark
chair held him fast, gripped him, forced him to
bear it.

"What?" he said dully. "What's that you
say?"

"The end was quite peaceful," said the small
voice. "He just" — and Hammond saw her lift her
gentle hand — "breathed his life away at the end."
And her hand fell.

"Who — else was there?" Hammond managed to
ask.

"Nobody. I was alone with him."

Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was
she doing to him ! This would kill him ! And all
the while she spoke :

"I saw the change coming and I sent the steward
for the doctor, but the doctor was too late. He
couldn't have done anything, anyway."

"But — why you, why you?" moaned Hammond.

At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched
his face.

"You don't mind, John, do you?" she asked.

"You don't It's nothing to do with you and

me."

Somehow or other he managed to shake some
sort of smile at her. Somehow or other he stam-

228

THE STRANGER

mered: "No — go — on, go on! I want you to tell
me."

"But, John darling "

"Tell me, Janey!"

"There's nothing to tell," she said, wondering.
"He was one of the first-class passengers. I saw
he was very ill when he came on board. . . . But
he seemed to be so much better until yesterday.
He had a severe attack in the afternoon — excite-
ment— nervousness, I think, about arriving. And
after that he never recovered."

"But why didn't the stewardess "

"Oh, my dear — the stewardess!" said Janey.
"What would he have felt? And besides ... he

might have wanted to leave a message . . .
, »>

"Didn't he?" muttered Hammond. "Didn't he
say anything?"

"No, darling, not a word!" She shook her head
softly. "All the time I was with him he was too
weak ... he was too weak even to move a
finger. . . ."

Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so
soft, so chill, seemed to hover in the air, to rain into
his breast like snow.

The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a
sharp sound and the room was colder. Cold crept
up his arms. The room was huge, immense, glit-
tering. It filled his whole world. There was the

229

THE STRANGER

great blind bed, with his coat flung across it like
some headless man saying his prayers. There was
the luggage, ready to be carried away again, any-
where, tossed into trains, carted on to boats.

. . . "He was too weak. He was too weak to
move a finger." And yet he died in Janey's arms.
She — who'd never — never once in all these years —
never on one single solitary occasion—*

No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in
thinking of it. No, he wouldn't face it. He
couldn't stand it. It was too much to bear!

And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers.
She pinched the edges of the tie together.

"You're not — sorry I told you, John darling? It
hasn't made you sad? It hasn't spoilt our evening —
our being alone together?"

But at that he had to hide his face. He put his
face into her bosom and his arms enfolded her.

Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone
together! They would never be alone together
again.

230

BANK HOLIDAY

A STOUT man with a pink face wears dingy
white flannel trousers, a blue coat with a
pink handkerchief showing, and a straw
hat much too small for him, perched at the back of
his head. He plays the guitar. A little chap in
white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt
hat like a broken wing, breathes into a flute; and
a tall thin fellow, with bursting oVer-ripe button
boots, draws ribbons — long, twisted, streaming
ribbons — of tune out of a fiddle. They stand,
unsmiling, but not serious, in the broad sunlight
opposite the fruit-shop; the pink spider of a hand
beats the guitar, the little squat hand, with a brass-
and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and
the fiddler's arm tries to saw the fiddle in two.

A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas,
tearing off the skins, dividing, sharing. One young
girl has even a basket of strawberries, but she does
not eat them. "Aren't they dear!" She stares at
the tiny pointed fruits as if she were afraid of them.
The Australian soldier laughs. "Here, go on,
there's not more than a mouthful." But he doesn't
want her to eat them, either. He likes to watch
her little frightened face, and her puzzled eyes lifted
to his: "Aren't they a price!" He pushes out his

231

BANK HOLIDAY

chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices
— old dusty pin-cushions — lean old hags like worn
umbrellas with a quivering bonnet on top; young
women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown
on hedges, and high pointed shoes; men in khaki,
sailors, shabby clerks, young Jews in fine cloth suits
with padded shoulders and wide trousers, "hospital
boys" in blue — the sun discovers them — the loud,
bold music holds them together in one big knot
for a moment. The young ones are larking, push-
ing each other on and off the pavement, dodging,
nudging; the old ones are talking: "So I said to 'im,
if you wants the doctor to yourself, fetch 'im, says
I."

"An' by the time they was cooked there wasn't so
much as you could put in the palm of me 'and!"

The only ones who are quiet are the ragged
children. They stand, as close up to the musicians
as they can get, their hands behind their backs, their
eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags.
A tiny staggerer, overcome, turns round twice, sits
down solemn, and then gets up again.

"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small girl behind
her hand.

And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins
together again, and again breaks, and is dissolved,
and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up the hill.

At the corner of the road the stalls begin.

"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a
tickler? Tickle 'em up, boys." Little soft brooms

232

BANK HOLIDAY

on wire handles. They are eagerly bought by the
soldiers.

"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!"

"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!"

"Sw-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do,
boys."

"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses,
lady?"

"Fevvers! Fewers!" They are hard to resist.
Lovely, streaming feathers, emerald green, scarlet,
bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wear
feathers threaded through their bonnets.

And an old woman in a three-cornered paper
hat cries as if it were her final parting advice, the
only way of saving yourself or of bringing him to
his senses : "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an'
put it on!"

It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the
sun goes in a shadow flies over; when it comes out
again it is fiery. The men and women feel it burning
their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel
their bodies expanding, coming alive ... so that
they make large embracing gestures, lift up their
arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt into
laughter.

Lemonade ! A whole tank of it stands on a table
covered with a cloth; and lemons like blunted fishes
blob in the yellow water. It looks solid, like a
jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't they drink it
without spilling it? Everybody spills it, and before

233

BANK HOLIDAY

the glass is handed back the last drops are thrown
in a ring.

Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awn-
ing and bright brass cover, the children cluster.
Little tongues lick, lick round the cream trumpets,
round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden
spoon plunges in; one shuts one's eyes to feel it,
silently scrunching.

"Let these little birds tell you your future I" She
stands beside the cage, a shrivelled ageless Italian,
clasping and unclasping her dark claws. Her face,
a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a green-and-
gold scarf. And inside their prison the love-birds
flutter towards the papers in the seed-tray.

"You have great strength of character. You
tvill marry a red-haired man and have three chil-
dren. Beware of a blonde woman." Look out!
Look out! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur
comes rushing down the hill. Inside there a blonde
woman, pouting, leaning forward — rushing through
your life — beware ! beware !

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by
profession, and if what I tell you is not the truth
I am liable to have my licence taken away from me
and a heavy imprisonment." He holds the licence
across his chest; the sweat pours down his face into
his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. When he
takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry
flesh on his forehead. Nobody buys a watch.

Look out again ! A huge barouche comes swing-

234

BANK HOLIDAY

ing down the hill with two old, old babies inside.
She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob of
his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the
cradle rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail
of manure as it ambles down the hill.

Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and
gown, stands beside his banner. He is here "for
one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels
Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face.
And he stands, smiling encouragement, like a clumsy
dentist. When the big men, romping and swearing
a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and
stand before him, they are suddenly serious, dumb,
timid, almost blushing as the Professor's quick hand
retches the printed card. They are like little chil-
dren caught playing in a forbidden garden by the
owner, stepping from behind a tree.

The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is!
How fine it is! The public-house is open, and the
crowd presses in. The mother sits on the pave-
ment edge with her baby, and the father brings her
out a glass of dark, brownish stuff, and then sav-
agely elbows his way in again. A reek of beer
floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and
rattle of voices.

The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more
fiercely than ever. Outside the two swing-doors
there is a thick mass of children like flies at the
mouth of a sweet-jar.

And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers

235

BANK HOLIDAY

and golliwogs, and roses and feadiers. Up, up
'they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, laugh-
ing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by
something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead
of them — drawn up into the full, bright, dazzling
radiance to . . what?

336

AN IDEAL FAMILY

THAT evening for the first time in his life, as
he pressed through the swing door and de-
scended the three broad steps to the pave-
ment, old Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the
spring. Spring — warm, eager, restless — was there,
waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front
of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard,
to drag sweetly on his arm. And he couldn't meet
her, no ; he couldn't square up once more and stride
off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and,
although the late sun was still shining, curiously
cold, with a numbed feeling all over. Quite sud-
denly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to
stand this gaiety and bright movement any longer;
it confused him. He wanted to stand still, to wave
it away with his stick, to say, "Be off with you!"
Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual —
tipping his wide-awake with his stick — all the people
whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shop-
keepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that
went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that
seemed to say, "I'm a match and more for any of
you" — that old Mr. Neave could not manage at
all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as
if he were walking through air that had somehow

237

AN IDEAL FAMILY

grown heavy and solid like water. And the home-
ward-going crowd hurried by, the trams clanked,
the light carts clattered, the big swinging cabs
bowled along with that reckless, defiant indifference
that one knows only in dreams. . . .

It had been a day like other days at the office.
Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn't
come back from lunch until close on four. Where
had he been? What had he been up to? He
wasn't going to let his father know. Old Mr,
Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying
good-bye to a caller, when Harold sauntered in,
perfectly turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling
that peculiar little half-smile that women found so
fascinating.

Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by
far; that had been the trouble all along. No man
had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and such lips;
it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and
the servants, it was not too much to say they made
a young god of him; they worshipped Harold, they
forgave him everything; and he had needed some
forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen
and he had stolen his mother's purse, taken the
money, and hidden the purse in the cook's bedroom.
Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon
the pavement edge. But it wasn't only his family
who spoiled Harold, he reflected, it was every-
body; he had only to look and to smile, and down
they went before him. So perhaps it wasn't to be

238

AN IDEAL FAMILY

wondered at that he expected the office to carry on
the tradition. H'm, h'm! But it couldn't be done.
No business — not even a successful, established, big
paying concern — could be played with. A man had
either to put his whole heart and soul into it, or it
went all to pieces before his eyes. . . .

And then Charlotte and the girls were always af
him to make the whole thing over to Harold, to re-
tire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. En
joying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead
under a group of ancient cabbage palms outside the
Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The
wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin-
airy cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs.i
conscious all the while that his life's work was slip-
ping away, dissolving, disappearing through Har-
old's fine fingers, while Harold smiled. . . .

"Why will you be so unreasonable, father?
There's absolutely no need for you to go to the
office. It only makes it very awkward for us when
people persist in saying how tired you're looking.
Here's this huge house and garden. Surely you
could be happy in — in — appreciating it for a change,,
Or you could take up some hobby."

And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, "All
men ought to have hobbies. It makes life impos-
sible if they haven't."

Well, well! He couldn't help a grim smile as
painfully he began to climb the hill that led into
Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her

239

AN IDEAL FAMILY

sisters and Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies,
he'd like to know? Hobbies couldn't pay for the
town house and the seaside bungalow, and their
horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gram-
ophone in the music-room for them to dance to.
Not that he grudged them these things. No, they
were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was
a remarkable woman; it was natural for them to be
in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house
in the town was as popular as theirs; no othef
family entertained so much. And how many times
old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar box across the
smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his
wife, his girls, of himself even.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.
It's like something one reads about or sees on the
stage."

"That's all right, my boy," old Mr. Neave would
reply. "Try one of those; I think you'll like them.
And if you care to smoke in the garden, you'll find
the girls on the lawn, I dare say."

That was why the girls had never married, so
people said. They could have married anybody.
But they had too good a time at home. They were
too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H'm,
tvm! Well, well! Perhaps so. ...

By this time he had walked the length of fashion-
able Harcourt Avenue; he had reached the corner
house, their house. The carriage gates were pushed
back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive.

240

AN IDEAL FAMILY

And then he faced the big white-painted house, with
its wide-open windows, its tulle curtains floating out-
wards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad sills.
On either side of the carriage porch their hydran-
geas— famous in the town — were coming into
flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower lay like
light among the spreading leaves. And somehow,
it seemed to old Mr. Neave that the house and the
flowers, and even the fresh marks on the drive, were
saying, "There is young life here. There are
girls "

The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, para-
sols, gloves, piled on the oak chests. From the
music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and im-
patient. Through the drawing-room door that was
ajar voices floated.

"And were there ices?" came from Charlotte.
Then the creak, creak of her rocker.

"Ices!" cried Ethel. "My dear mother, you
never saw such ices. Only two kinds. And one a
common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet
frill."

"The food altogether was too appalling," came
from Marion.

"Still, it's rather early for ices," said Charlotte
easily.

"But why, if one has them at all . . ." began
Ethel.

"Oh, quite so, darling," crooned Charlotte.

Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola
241

AN IDEAL FAMILY

dashed out. She started, she nearly screamed, at
the sight of old Mr. Neave.

"Gracious, father ! What a fright you gave me !
Have you just come home? Why isn't Charles
here to help you off with your coat?"

Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes
glittered, the hair fell over her forehead. And
she breathed as though she had come running
through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr.
Neave stared at his youngest daughter; he felt he
had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was
it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father;
it was not for him that she was waiting there. Now
she put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief be-
tween her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The tele-
phone rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob
and dashed past him. The door of the telephone-
room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte
called, "Is that you, father?"

"You're tired again," said Charlotte reproach-
fully, and she stopped the rocker and offered him
her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel
pecked his beard; Marion's lips brushed his ear.

"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes, I walked home," said old Mr. Neave, and
he sank into one of the immense drawing-room
chairs.

"But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel.
"There are hundreds of cabs about at that time."

"My dear Ethel," cried Marion, "if father pre-
242

AN IDEAL FAMILY

fers to tire himself out, I really don't see what busi-
ness of ours it is to interfere."

"Children, children?" coaxed Charlotte.

But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother,
you spoil father, and it's not right. You ought to
be stricter with him. He's very naughty." She
laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair
in a mirror. Strange ! When she was a little girl
she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even
stuttered, and now, whatever she said — even if it
was only "Jam, please, father" — it rang out as
though she were on the stage.

"Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?"
asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again.

"I'm not sure," said old Mr. Neave. "I'm not
sure. I didn't see him after four o'clock."

"He said " began Charlotte.

But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching
over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her
mother and sank down beside her chair.

"There, you see," she cried. "That's what I
mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver.
Don't you agree?"

"Give it to me, love," said Charlotte. She fum-
bled for her tortoise-shell spectacles and put
them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump
small fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very
sweet!" she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel
over her spectacles. "But I shouldn't have the
train."

243

AN IDEAL FAMILY

"Not the train!" wailed Ethel tragically. "But
the train's the whole point."

"Here, mother, let me decide." Marion
snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte. "I
agree with mother," she cried triumphantly. "The
train overweights it."

Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad
lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though
he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he was
tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte
and the girls were too much for him to-night. They
were too . . . too. . . . But all his drowsing brain
could think of was — too rich for him. And some-
where at the back of everything he was watching
a little withered ancient man climbing up endless
flights of stairs. Who was he?

"I shan't dress to-night," he muttered.

"What do you say, father?"

"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke with
a start and stared across at them. "I shan't dress
to-night," he repeated.

"But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and Henry
Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker."

"It will look so very out of the picture."

"Don't you feel well, dear?"

"You needn't make any effort. What is Charles
for?"

"But if you're really not up to it," Charlotte
Vvavered.

"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got
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AN IDEAL FAMILY

up and went to join that little old climbing fellow
'just as far as his dressing-room. . . .

There y,oung Charles was waiting for him.
Carefully, as though everything depended on it, he
was tucking a towel round the hot-water can.
Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since
as a little red-faced boy he had come into the house
to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave lowered
himself into the cane lounge by the window,
stretched out his legs, and made his little evening
joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And Charles,
breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to
take the pin out of his tie.

H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the
open window, very pleasant — a fine mild evening.
They were cutting the grass on the tennis court
below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon
the girls would begin their tennis parties again.
And at the thought he seemed to hear Marion's
voice ring out, "Good for you, partner. . . . Oh,
played, partner. . . . Oh, very nice indeed."
Then Charlotte calling from the veranda,
"Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly
not here, mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He
said "

Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one
hand under his beard, he took the comb from young
Charles, and carefully combed the white beard over.
Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch
and seals, and spectacle case.

245

AN IDEAL FAMILY

"That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank
back, he was alone. . . .

And now that little ancient fellow was climbing
down endless flights that led to a glittering, gay din-
ing-room. What legs he had! They were like a
spider's — thin, withered.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family."

But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or
the girls stop him? Why was he all alone, climbing
up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was
no good expecting anything from Harold. Down,
down went the little old spider, and then, to his
horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the dining-
room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the
carriage gates, the office. Stop him, stop him,
somebody !

Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his
.dressing-room; the window shone pale. How long
liad he been asleep? He listened, and through the
big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away
voices, far-away sounds. Perhaps, he thought
vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time. He'd
been forgotten. What had all this to do with him
— this house and Charlotte, the girls and Harold —
what did he know about them? They were
strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Char-
lotte was not his wife. His wife !

... A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-
vine, that drooped sorrowful, mournful, as though
it understood. Small, warm arms were round his

246

AN IDEAL FAMILY

neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a
voice breathed, "Good-bye, my treasure."

My treasure! "Goodbye, my treasure!" Which
of them had spoken? Why had they said
good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake.
She was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest
of his life had been a dream.

Then the door opened, and young Charles, stand-
ing in the light, put his hands by his side and shouted
like a young soldier, "Dinner is on the table, sir!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr. Neave.

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THE LADY'S MAID

~jl ^LEFEN o'clock. A knock at the door. . . .

j-~4 I hope I haven't disturbed you, madam.
JL — ^ You weren't asleep — were you? But I've
just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice
cup over, I thought, perhaps . . .

. . . Not at all, madam. I always make a cup
of tea last thing. She drinks it in bed after her
prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when
she kneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't
be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers."
But it's always boiling before my lady is half
through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of
people, and they've all got to be prayed for — every
one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little
red book. Oh dear ! whenever some one new has
been to see us and my lady says afterwards, "Ellen,
give me my little red book," I feel quite wild, I do.
"There's another," I think, "keeping her out of
her bed in all weathers." And she won't have a
cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard
carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see
her, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her;
I've spread but the eiderdown. But the first time
I did it — oh, she gave me such a look — holy it was,
madam. "Did our Lord have an eiderdown,

248

THE LADY'S MAID

Ellen?" she said. But — I was younger at the time
— I felt inclined to say, "No, but our Lord wasn't
your age, and he didn't know what it was to have
your lumbago." Wicked — wasn't it? But she's
too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her
up just now and seen — saw her lying back, her
hands outside and her head on the pillow — so
pretty — I couldn't help thinking, "Now you look
just like your dear mother when I laid her out!"

. . . Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she
did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round
her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one
side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful
purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of
her, madam! I shall never forget them. I
thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now,
if only the pansies was there no one could tell the
difference."

. . . Only the last year, madam. Only after
she'd got a little — well — feeble as you might say.
Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the
sweetest old lady. But how it took her was — she
thought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep
still, she couldn't settle. All day long she'd be up
and down, up and down; you'd meet her every-
where— on the stairs, in the porch, making for the
kitchen. And she'd look up at you, and she'd say
— just like a child, "I've lost it, I've lost it."
"Corne along," I'd say, "come along, and I'll lay
out your patience for you." But she'd catch me

THE LADY'S MAID

by the hand — I was a favourite of hers — and whis-
per, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me." Sad,
wasn't it?

. . . No, she never recovered, madam. She
had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said

was — very slow, "Look in — the Look — in

" And then she was gone.

. . . No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Per-
haps some girls. But you see, it's like this, I've got
nobody but my lady. My mother died of consump-
tion when I was four, and I lived with my grand-
father, who kept a hair-dresser's shop. I used to
spend all my time in the shop under a table dress-
ing my doll's hair — copying the assistants, I sup-
pose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to
make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions
and all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet —
the customers never knew. Only now and again
I'd take my peep from under the table-cloth.

. . . But one day I managed to get a pair of
scissors and — would you believe it, madam? I cut
off all my hair ; snipped it off all in bits, like the little
monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He
caught hold of the tongs — I shall never forget it—-
grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in
them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a
fearful burn. I've got the mark of it to-day.

. . . Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such
pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the coun-
ter, before the customers came, and do it something

250

THE LADY'S MAID

beautiful — big, soft curls and waved over the top.
I remember the assistants standing round, and me
ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me
to hold while it was being done. . . . But he always
took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather 1
Wild, he was, at the fright I'd made of myself.
But he frightened me that time. Do you know
what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did,
round the corners, in and out, I don't know how
far I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a
sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my
hair sticking out. People must have laughed when
they saw me. . . .

. . . No, madam, grandfather never got over it.
He couldn't bear the sight of me after. Couldn't
eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt
took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress.
Tiny! She had to stand on the sofas when she
wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping
her I met my lady. . . .

. . . Not so very, madam. I was thirteen,
turned. And I don't remember ever feeling — well
— a child, as you might say. You see there was my
uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put
me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes —
once I did! That was — funny! It was like this.
My lady had her two little nieces staying with her —
we were at Sheldon at the time — and there was a
fair on the common.

"Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the
251

THE LADY'S MAID

two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys." Of
we went; solemn little loves they were; each had
hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were
too shy to go on. So we stood and watched insteac
Beautiful those donkeys were ! They were the first
I'd seen out of a cart — for pleasure as you
might say. They were a lovely silver-grey, wit!
little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jing-a-
jingling on their ears. And quite big girls — oldei
than me, even — were riding them, ever so gay.
Not at all common, I don't mean, madam, just en-
joying themselves. And I don't know what it was
but the way the little feet went, and the eyes — so
gentle — and the soft ears — made me want to go on
a donkey more than anything in the world !

. . . Of course, I couldn't. I had my young
ladies. And what would I have looked like perched
up there in my uniform? But all the rest cf the
day it was donkeys — donkeys on the brain with me.
I felt I should have burst if I didn't tell some one;
and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed
— I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our
cook that was, at the time — as soon as the lights
was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along,
with their neat little feet and sad eyes. . . . Well,
madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long
time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly
I sat up and called out as loud as I could, "/ do want
to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!"
You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn't

252

laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Art-
ful— wasn't it? Just what a silly child would
think. , . .

. . . No, madam, never now. Of course, I did
think of it at one time. But it wasn't to be. He
had a little flower-shop just down the road and
across from where we was living. Funny — wasn't
it? And me such a one for flowers. We were hav-
ing a lot of company at the time, and I was in and
out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is.
And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to
quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged
— and that began it. Flowers ! you wouldn't believe
it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He'd
stop at nothing. It was lilies-of-the-valley more
than once, and I'm not exaggerating! Well, of
course, we were going to be married and live over
the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I
was to have the window to arrange. . . . Oh, how
I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really,
of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say.
I've done it for Christmas — motto in holly, and all
^and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star
all daffodils in the middle. I've hung — well, that's
enough of that. The day came he was to call for
me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget it?
It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself
that afternoon. Not that she'd said anything, of
course; she never does or will. But I knew by the
way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking

253

THE LADY'S MAID

me if it was cold — and her little nose looked . . .
pinched. I didn't like leaving her; I knew I'd be
worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she'd
rather I put it off. "Oh no, Ellen," she said, "you
mustn't mind about me. You mustn't disappoint
your young man." And so cheerful, you know,
madam, never thinking about herself. It made me
feel worse than ever. I began to wonder . . .
then she dropped her handkerchief and began to
stoop down to pick it up herself — a thing she never
did.. "Whatever are you doing!" I cried, running
to stop her. "Well," she said, smiling, you know,
madam, "I shall have to begin to practise." Oh, it
was all I could do not to burst out crying. I went
over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub
up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I
asked her if she'd rather I ... didn't get married.
"No, Ellen," she said — that was her voice, madam,
like I'm giving you — "No, Ellen, not for the wide
world!" But while she said it, madam — I was look-
ing in her glass ; of course, she didn't know I could
see her — she put her little hand on her heart just
like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes.
. . . Oh, madam!

When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and
the ring and a ducky little brooch he'd given me — a
silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the
end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the
thing ! I opened the door to him. I never gave him
time for a word. "There you are," I said. "Take

254

them all back," I said, "it's all over. I'm not going
to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my lady."
White ! he turned as white as a woman. I had to
slam the door, and there I stood, all of a tremble,
till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door
— believe me or not, madam — that man was gone 1
I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron
and my house-shoes, and there I stayed in the middle
of the road . . . staring. People must have
laughed if they saw me. . . .

. . . Goodness gracious! — What's that? It's
the clock striking! And here I've been keeping you
awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me.
. . . Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my
lady's feet, every night, just the same. And she
says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and wake
early !" I don't know what I should do if she didn't
say that, now.

. . . Oh dear, I sometimes think . . . whatever
should I do if anything were to ... But, there,
thinking's no good to any one — is it, madam?
Thinking won't help. Not that I do it often. And
if ever I do I pull myself up sharp, "Now, then,
Ellen. At it again — you silly girl ! If you can't find
anything better to do than to start thinking I . . ."

255

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ADAMS, HENRY
AIKEN, CONRAD

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BALZAC

BEERBOHM, MAX
BENNETT, ARNOLD
BIERCE, AMBROSE
BOCCACCIO
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Sapho 85

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South Wind 5

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Penguin Island 210

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The Apple Tree

(In Great Modern Short Stories 168)
Mile. De Maupin,

One of Cleopatra's Nights 53
Progress and Poverty 36
The Counterfeiters 187
New Grub Street 125
Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft 46
Barren Ground 25
Faust 177
The Sorrows of Werther

(In Collected German Stories 108)
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I, Claudius 20
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Jude the Obscure 135
The Mayor of Casterbridge 17
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JAMES, HENRY
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Tess of the D'Urbervilles 72

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A Farewell to Arms 19

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Maria Chapdelaine 10

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Green Mansions 89

The Purple Land 24

A High Wind in Jamaica ill

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Death in Venice

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Capital and Other Writings 202
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An Anthology of American Negro

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Eight Famous Elizabethan Plays 94
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Great Modern Short Stories 168
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The Making of Man: An Outline of

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Human Being 74
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Thus Spake Zarathustra 9
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The Emperor Jones, Anna Christie and

The Hairy Ape 146
Seven Plays of the Sea in
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Studies in Murder 113
Samuel Pepys' Diary 103
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The Philosophy of Plato 181
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The Travels of Marco Polo 196
Flowering Judas 88
Manon Lescaut 85
Cities of the Plain 22O
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Swann's Way 59
Within a Budding Grove 172
Gargantua and Pantagruel 4
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Ten Days that Shook the World 215
The Life of Jesus 140 •
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Selected Papers of Bertrand Russell 137

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The Daring Young Man on the Flying
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The Philosophy of Schopenhauer 52

The Story of an African Farm 132

Personal History 32

Humphry Clinker 159

The Philosophy of Spinoza 60

In Dubious Battle 115

Tortilla Flat 216

Of Mice and Men 29

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The Red and the Black 157

Tristram Shandy 147

Dracula 31

Lust for Life II

Eminent Victorians 212

The Song of Songs 162

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Gulliver's Travels, A Tale of a Tub, The
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Poems 23

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Short Stories 50

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Henry Esmond 80

Vanity Fair 131

Complete Poems 38

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Poems and Fairy Tales 84

Mrs. Dalloway 96

To the Lighthouse 217

Irish Fairy and Folk Talcs 44

The Medici 179

Nana 142

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1 1 » ••

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mi •»••

PR Mansfield, Katherine
6025 The garden party
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